A Song for Sansa and Sandor
by KhaleesiDany
Summary: In this story taking place after the events in A Storm of Swords, Sandor Clegane travels to the Eyrie where he meets Sansa Stark living by another name. Sansa begs him to take her-don't worry, he will!-but their progress north is threatened by everything from Littlefinger to Sandor's big brother in this, the REMARKABLE ADVENTURES OF SANSAN!
1. 1: ALAYNE

DISCLAIMER:

I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire series or have anything to do with its creation or publication. I make no money from this; it is a fan-fiction where I gloss over major elements of the original story for the sake of SanSan love.

THANK YOU

George R. R. Martin for writing books.

Note: Contains MAJOR spoilers up to the end of A Storm of Swords, and some spoilers from A Feast for Crows.

There's no M-rated content yet; I'll warn you.

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CHAPTER 1

ALAYNE

_Winter is coming._ Those were the words of the Starks from Winterfell, the castle farthest to the North of all the Seven Kingdoms. The Starks were all dead now, but their words held true even in this Southron castle, proven by the bluster of snow that whistled and beat against its windows. This castle, called the Eyrie, was built on a mountain peak overlooking a meadow valley and its towers reached past the heights of clouds. Gray stones packed close together kept warmth from fireplaces and braziers trapped in the rooms and hallways of the castle.

There was one stone, though, that did not fit with the others. Where they were cold to the touch she was warm and soft, and human. Her name was Alayne and the surname _Stone_ had been given to her to mark her as a bastard of the Vale. She carried herself well for a lady of low birth, gliding silently between the sconces on red slippers towards her father's office. Having many talents—she could play the harp and bells, sing, and read and write; not just letters, but poetry, too—and being possessed with a refined beauty, she seemed destined to rise above her bastardry.

At least her father thought so, and if there was one man who knew what tricks best served a person seeking to rise above their station, it was Petyr Baelish. Called Littlefinger, though he himself did not use that name, he had been born to a lesser Lord in the Vale and now he sat the high seat of the Eyrie. He was not the Lord in name per se, but the power that came with that title could hardly be set to rest on the shoulders of the ten year old boy who claimed it by birthright, and so that burden went to Petyr Baelish.

He was a master of sums, seizure and manipulation. To Alayne it seemed that everyone who stepped foot in this castle was his pawn, to be pitted and played against each other to further his own ends. She often wondered how she fit into his plans; she never wondered "if." For she and Baelish shared a secret too good to keep to themselves forever—that she was really Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell.

In truth she missed her old life, though things had gone horribly wrong for Sansa after she left the North. It was safer now to be Alayne, with Sansa Stark buried deep inside herself and almost forgotten. But deep inside her heart of hearts she felt nervous. What would Petyr do when she came of age in a month's time? The feeling gnawed beneath her lie and she acted out in the most forgivable ways.

Like now, coming to beg a favor him while he worked. "I'm going to be busy tomorrow morning, so don't disturb me," he'd said the night before. "If our young Lord Robert has any trouble you'll handle it yourself."

A group of riders had been galloping across the Vale, shadows afore the dusk. Alayne saw them through the window. "Is it preparations for the feast that keep you busy?" The Autumn festival marked the end of the season, when the Eyrie became too cold to live in and had to be abandoned until the spring.

"It is the guests themselves, my dear. Most are wroth to leave without some consult. Would that they enjoyed the food and left. Goodnight, Alayne."

He'd leaned in to kiss her then. At the last moment she turned her cheek.

"Surely, you have something inside you sweeter than that." He spoke in a whisper and did not take his face away. When she looked at him he kissed her on the mouth.

She could not be Alayne when he did that. Alayne was Petyr's daughter. She had kissed her real father on the mouth, true, but with Petyr it was different. He held it for too long and sometimes moved his mouth against hers. She always broke away, afraid that he would never stop or that he would start to touch her.

That was yesterday, and this morning she had left Lord Robert in the granary counting out grains of rice for the feast. So she had nothing to do but disturb her father and hope that he would honor her request just to get her out of his way.

She crept down the hallway on cat's feet. A man was already waiting outside Petyr's office. That meant that either Petyr was very busy, or the man was not very important. He was tall and had the straight posture of a swordsman. Once, Sansa would have taken him for a knight, but she had since learned that carrying a sword did not mean one kept an oath to chivalry. And there was something dark about this man, his features coming to her out of the shadows, with his thin black hair and straight-set jaw.

Then he turned to her, and she knew him. It was Sandor Clegane. Sansa froze and her heart caught in her throat. She searched the side of his face she had first seen for an answer to why she had not recognized him, but there was no mistaking the burned side of his face. The scar was melted flesh, making him look like a living cross-section of muscle and skin from a Maester's anatomy reference book.

_I did not think of him as a man, but as a monster_, she thought, studying the right side of his face. He could not be called beautiful like Loras or Renly, but there was something masculine and attractive in the hard lines of his face. She sought out the soft gray eye beneath his stern expression, but when she looked to the eye's twin and the raw flesh that surrounded it he turned away from her.

The door opened. For a flicker of a moment Petyr Baelish's smile changed to consternation, but then he was back to his honey-sweet self. "I did not expect to see you here."

_He is talking to me_, Alayne knew, but it was Sandor Clegane who answered.

"You knew I was coming."

"Not you."

Alayne felt herself growing hot beneath his anger, but Sandor just shrugged. "The Bear couldn't make it."

Littlefinger was much shorter than Sandor, but he could still look down his nose at him. "Is that so?"

Sandor grunted in approval. "He gave me a message for you, and a gift. I hoped I might trade it to you."

"It's hardly a gift if I need to buy it."

"It's not a gift from _me_."

"Still," his eyes flicked to Alayne. "I suppose the message is important, not the man who brings it. Alayne, this is Sandor Clegane, a freerider. Clegane this is my daughter, Alayne Stone. I don't believe you've met."

That gave them permission to turn to each other. Sansa's heart thudded in her chest. She was sure the men could hear it. "Pleased to meet you." She spread the front of her blue dress wide as she curtsied.

Sandor inclined his head to her at a depth that would have shamed a highborn lady, and she felt her cheeks growing red despite herself. "I don't recall you having a daughter, Baelish."

"My natural daughter. I only knew of her once I returned to the Vale, though she is so lovely I am not ashamed to admit her." Petyr took her hand and kissed it. "I'll give you something for your trouble, Clegane. As for you," his grip tightened around the bones of her fingers, "I thought you were too occupied with other pursuits to visit me today. To what event do I owe this pleasure?"

Faced with her father's obvious displeasure and unexpectedly meeting with Sandor Clegane, Sansa's countenance faltered. "I-uh, nothing is wrong, Father. The preparations for the feast are all in order and our Lord Robert is, uhm, taking care to observe them."

"Very good."

She took a quick breath. "Since there's nothing else for me to do this morning, I hoped I might go riding."

"Hah!" Petyr dropped her hand. "Did you take a look outside? Our guest here bought a storm with him."

"It's not more than a flurry, really," Clegane said. Petyr did not even look at him.

"Regardless, it's no weather for a young lady to be caught in, much less elect to place herself. You will find another activity to occupy yourself with for today."

"Yes, Father."

He shut the door, leaving Alayne in the stone-cold hallway. She knew it would be no use to listen against the heavy oaken door, so she retreated to the lower levels of the castle. She found a way to occupy herself, stalking through the common areas, hoping she would run into Sandor Clegane. In the meantime, the heavy frost covering the windows brought a new thought to her mind. _Winter is here.  
_

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_It's been two months since I last posted something, because I've been working on this. And I'm still not done! I'm really slow :( I figured I would post the early chapters while I finish up the rest. Expect some things to change as I tend to go back and edit, but the main story stays the same. I have a cushion of a few chapters to give me some time to write the end. I will finish this...if I get enough reviews! JUST KIDDING! I will finish it anyway...but feedback is nice! _

___Thanks to everyone who reviewed and favorited my last story! You gave me the confidence to tackle this much longer project._


	2. 2: SANDOR

CHAPTER 2

SANDOR

The meeting with Littlefinger went better than expected. He read the letter Sandor brought from Mormont, looked to the man who delivered it and said, "Dragons? You expect me to believe this?"

Sandor threw the skull on the table. He'd brought it all the way from Gulltown, wrapped in a muslin cloth. After that, it was just a matter of negotiating what the price of such a delivery was worth. Littlefinger paid him enough that he could travel away from here comfortably, and a little extra to insure his silence.

But the real prize was seeing Sansa Stark. It had been a few years since he saw her last; she had grown a fair bit and was in disguise, but there was no mistaking the fledgling beauty of the little bird. Now their circumstances were so different that their first meeting felt like another life. He had been a prince's sworn shield; the girl his master's betrothed. Now that she was Littlefinger's bastard daughter, they could have made a match at court, if he hadn't fallen equally far in his station.

Sandor shook the thought from his head. There were other barriers to them pairing up and their class difference was just the most obvious one. The state of his face was another. It was absurd to consider her as a potential mate, though with her full breasts and slim figure he couldn't help but think of her as a woman.

Still, he kept an eye out for Sansa, and she popped up some time after lunch, when most people had eaten and the common room was mostly empty. She glided onto the same bench as him, far enough away that she might have chosen the table just for the leftover turkey sandwiches, but the glance she stole in his direction that let him know she wasn't.

He waited until she'd filled her plate to tease her. "I see a little bird's come to the table."

She turned to him, gaping, her first bite of food resting on her tongue. Her head snapped around to see if anyone else had heard him, but the few others in the room were out of hearing distance, and most were dozing. Not that they would catch the joke between him and the girl, anyway.

_She forgets herself so easily._ "Your shirt," he pointed out.

Sansa looked down at the mockingbird sewn onto her breast. "Oh! Hahahahaha!" She covered her mouth when she laughed. "My father's sigil. Do you like it?"

Sandor had a pint of ale with him, and he swished some around in his mouth before answering. "No."

Sansa's smile dropped off.

"Something tells me you'd look better with a wolf in its place."

A stillness came over her so profound her unblinking eyes reminded him of the dead. It was a long time before she turned back to her plate and spoke. "Something tells me you're right.

She picked at her food more than she ate after that. He felt oddly guilty from seeing her pain, but it wasn't his fault she was holed up in the Eyrie. _Say something to her_, he pressed himself. But it was Sansa who spoke first.

"I should be in Winterfell."

"Winterfell's burned to the ground."

She turned on him, her blue eyes flashing. "You don't know that. Have you been there?"

"No," he admitted. The serving girl came by and he pressed her for more ale, and Sansa ate in silence until she passed. For anyone to overhear their conversation would be dangerous for both of them.

"My father said that there should always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"Why would Petyr Baelish say something like that?"

"Sandor . . . why are we pretending? I know you know . . ." She edged closer to him before whispering, "I'm Sansa."

"Sounds like you aren't anymore." He peered into his mug. Empty. Damn.

"You know I am."

"Do you?"

She gave him an indignant look, but also hurt, before taking a healthy bite of her sandwich. "If I really were a bird, I would fly there right now."

The girl came by with his drink. As soon as she was gone, Sansa sidled up next to him with a mischievous look. "You should take me," she said.

_Would that you'd let me,_ he thought, but he knew what she really meant, and it made him blow the foam off the top of his beer with a laugh. "What makes you think I'd take you anywhere? I never swore an oath to you."

"You did not," she conceded. At the same time she reached her hand out and placed two fingers over his heart, and Sandor knew he was lying.

That was when Lothor Brune came in. Sansa dropped her hand and Brune did not seem to notice her, though he eyed Sandor as he passed. He remembered him from the tournament where he'd been champion. Back then Lothor Brune had been a freerider, but now he was the freerider and Brune guarded Petyr's keep like a loyal dog.

"You'd be a fool to trust me." Sandor whispered to her. Seeing Brune with Sansa seated so close to him had put him on edge. "You have a price of a thousand gold dragons on your head. What makes you think I wouldn't turn you in?"

"I don't know. Nothing. I am completely at your mercy, Sandor Clegane."

He felt his face grow hot at her words. It didn't seem right. How could he have such power over her, when she was so high above him?

"Even if I couldn't go to Winterfell, I'd still like to go North," she went on. "My brother Jon is Lord Commander on the Wall now. He would help me-well, maybe." Even Sansa was ready to admit that was wishful thinking, and Sandor shook his head.

"You sound too much like your sister."

She'd done a good job of carrying on their conversation subtly until that moment, but now she stared at him openly. "My sister? You mean Arya? How?"

"Yeah. She said the same thing, but I wouldn't take her."

Sansa followed him with a bit of a delay. "You met my sister? I mean, obviously, you met her. But you met her since she disappeared?"

He nodded. "I found her in the Riverlands, but your mother and the Tully's left their castle, so I took her to The Twins to ransom to your brother."

Sansa looked near fainting. "You took my sister to The Twins?"

"The fighting broke out when we got there. Your brother was already dead. She wanted to go in and rescue your mother, but I wouldn't let her. Too dangerous." He hoped she wouldn't blame him for that, the way her little sister had. "She would have ran in herself if I hadn't stopped her." Thinking of stubborn Arya and how she held it against him that he wouldn't let her get herself killed still made him sneer.

"If you didn't leave her at Riverrun or The Twins, what did you do with her?"

"Thought about coming here, actually. To your aunt." He hesitated, unsure of how to continue. "We didn't make it."

"Why not? What happened?"

"We got in a fight with my brother's men. I was wounded, and she left."

"Was she all right? Where did she go?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure she can take care of herself." He didn't add that he saw her kill a man. Sansa absorbed the information in silence. "I'm sorry about your mother. I didn't think we'd make it if we went for her. I'm sorry about your brother, too." _You better stop there, before you list her whole goddamn family_, he told himself, but there was one still nagging at him. "And I'm sorry about your father."

"But my sister. My sister is alive."

"Last time I saw her."

"Oh, thank you!" She really did forget herself then, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He worried someone would see, but the room had cleared out. "I've wondered for years what happened to my sister-if she made it out of King's Landing or not, if she was alive or dead. Now I know she made it out alive and was safe for a little while, at least. Thank you, thank you _so much_!"

He put his arms around her. She fit right against him. That made his heart beat faster. "You're welcome," he said in a low voice. She pulled away from him, grinning.

"I must excuse myself, Sandor. You're not leaving yet, are you? You'll be at the feast tomorrow?"

"The weather's too bad for me to ride out."

"Good, then I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, but you won't tell anyone about this . . . about me, will you?"

"I'll keep your secret, Sansa."

"Thank you," she said again, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. It was the left side of his face that was closest to her, the burned side. Sansa didn't seem to notice, and kissed him there before she took her leave.


	3. 3: SANSA

CHAPTER 3

SANSA

Sansa raced up the stairs to her balcony, so happy she could sing. _Arya is alive! _She wanted to shout it aloud, to turn it into a song of her own, but she didn't dare, and she didn't have the lungpower to run and sing.

She ran out onto the balcony gasping for breath. The open meadow of the Vale stretched out before her, ringed by a chain of purple mountains. Behind them, the sun was a flaming yellow ball that kept the sky swathed in strips of pink and orange. Somewhere beyond those mountains, Arya was probably alive. Sansa didn't know for certain, but if she'd made it as far as Sandor said there was a good chance that she was still alive. That was already far longer than she'd supposed Arya would live, anyway. She had pretty much given her up for dead after she went missing from King's Landing.

With a pang of guilt, Sansa realized she had never mourned her sister. She had cried so much for Robb, and Bran and baby Rickon, but she had never shed a tear for Arya.

The tears came now. Sansa was ashamed that even these were not for her sister, but for herself.

"My Lady? Is something wrong?" Her handmaid came out to feed the climbing roses, which were dying in the cold, and noticed her wet cheeks. Inwardly, Sansa cursed herself for snivelling.

"No, Megga. Thank you." She was bad at lying. _I'm really the heir to Winterfell, and I've learned my long-dead sister is alive. _Words hung from her open mouth as she sought the ones that would explain her tears, but not arouse the suspicion of her blinking handmaid. "I came out to watch the sunset, and it's so beautiful that I-just look at it!-I started to cry."

"You'd best go inside, my Lady, before you catch a chill from the wind." Megga gave her half a smile and then turned to the plants, but not before Sansa caught her true expression. _She thinks I'm a putz_, she realized.

Not wanting to stand there and feel condescended to by a maid, Sansa swept past her and grabbed her harp on her way to the parlour. She sat in the cushioned armchair and let her mind wander as freely as her fingers over the strings.

She and Arya had never gotten along well, that was true, but if she ever saw her again she would hug her and kiss her and apologize for everything. She and Arya could never be friends, they were just too different, but they were sisters. She clung to the hope that Arya was alive and that they would meet again someday.

She doubled over her harp with a laugh when she thought of the serendipitous chain of events that had led her sister to the Hound, and then the Hound back to her. When she first saw him here she didn't know what to think, but talking with him made her feel like an old friend had come to visit her. What were the chances he'd find her sister, and then find her again, holed up in the Eyrie as she was, to tell her of her sister's fate? It was odd to imagine them traveling together. She wondered if Arya had been any polite to him at all.

She heard the voices of men coming from the hall and recognized one as Petyr Baelish. A moment later he and Ser Morton entered the parlour. Sansa knew Ser Morton was the son of the Lady Waynwood, a powerful family in the Vale. She had not met the Lady Waynwood, but judging from her son's age she was probably advanced herself. He inclined his head to her and she bowed hers in turn. They were in the midst of a discussion, so Sansa kept strumming her harp.

"As I was saying, I doubt your mother could supply a more fitting arrangement," Petyr was saying. He strode over to the cabinet and poured two cups of wine. "You'll keep playing for us, won't you dear?"

"Yes, Father," Alayne said. She wondered if she should have jumped up to pour the drinks herself.

"That may be true, but the boy is old enough to decide for himself," said Morton, taking his glass and standing with Petyr near the fire. Sansa quickly zoned out of their boring conversation. Petyr was always plotting something, and if it was important he would let her in on it. Her thoughts were on Sandor Clegane.

_ I should thank him somehow. _Surely the few words she said to him were not adequate thanks for the best news she'd had in years. She wanted to give him something in return so that he would know how happy he'd made her, but what?

_I know! _She rushed to finish the song she was playing, her fingers dancing over the harpstrings in a rush, just as a lull in the conversation turned the men's attention back to her.

"You play beautifully, Alayne," Ser Morton complimented her.

"Thank you, Ser. Will you be joining us at the feast tomorrow?"

"I will, as will Ser Harry, my old squire. He should be coming up from Sky about now."

Littlefinger smiled at his daughter's display of good manners. "Father," she asked him, "will there be music at the feast?"

"Of course, my sweet. Why do you ask? Perhaps you wish to play as well?"

"No. Actually, I was hoping I might sing."

Ser Morton looked impressed to learn that Alayne had more than one talent, and Littlefinger beamed. "I would be honored if you would grace us with a song, and so would our guests. Don't you agree, Ser Morton?"

"If her singing's half as lovely as her harp playing, aye."

Sansa blushed.

"It's better. My daughter has a lovely voice. What do you want to sing?"

"Uhm," she plucked a few notes on her harp. "Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, I think?"

"Very good, Alayne. Classic. I'll tell one of the singers to accompany you. Now if you would excuse us, I believe Ser Morton and I have something more to discuss."

"Yes, Father. I'd like to go to my room and practice, anyway."

It had been a long time since she used her voice. Once as clear and strong as an oriole's, it now sounded more like the lamentable cooing of a dove. Since her aunt had died she was not as partial to music, nor did she have much occasion to sing or even raise her voice, locked inside the high walls of the Eyrie as she was. She had been speaking above a whisper for so long that now she found her voice hard to project. It cracked at the top of the scale and Sansa huffed in frustration.

"Megga," she ordered her maid, "get me honey with a bit of lemon, if we have it." She used the mixture to keep from working her throat raw. After a few hours she'd sufficiently exercised her voice to an echo of its former strength and resolved to practice again in the morning. She had to rest because she didn't want to push herself too hard and risk losing her voice.

She said not a word all afternoon, and greeted everyone who spoke to her that evening in a voice as soft as falling snow. This was how she greeted Ser Morton, who introduced her to his former squire, Ser Harold Hardyng. He had a shock of straw-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. At first impression, Sansa found him quite dashing.

"Harry is a new-made knight," Ser Morton said.

"Yes, and I've got my own squire now. There he is; Timory!"

A youth about Sansa's age stepped over shyly. From looks they could have been brothers, but Timory did not have Harry's swagger or sharp features.

"What did you say your name was?" Harry asked. He leaned in to hear her better.

"Alayne."

"Lovely." The bell signaling the start of dinner rang. "Timory, show the lady to her seat."

Sansa's place was farther down the table than if she had been Petyr's true-born daughter, but she still sat near the top. Timory pulled the chair out for her and took his place behind her chair with the other servants. Sansa was surprised when, a minute later, Ser Harold took the seat next to hers.

Her stomach was in a flutter from a nervousness she hadn't anticipated. She ate less than she would have otherwise, taking just a taste of the dishes that past her way. Hundred-year-old duck eggs (which Sansa knew were really only from last spring) and wheels of assorted cheese were some of the delicacies, and most of the fare was made from granary staples that wouldn't keep through the winter. And of course, lots of wine.

Eventually, Petyr called a musician over for her. The servants cleared some space on the table for dessert while Petyr made an announcement that she was about to sing, and Sansa felt half the eyes in the hall turn to her. Most of the guests were polite enough to quiet down, but a few down at the far end were too drunk to notice that a small girl took the stage.

The band started, the musician next to her plucking his fingers over the harpstrings, and the ones behind her with their pipes and tambourines, and Sansa sang:

_"To love a lady teaches men,_  
_There's strength in soul and spirit._  
_That's what the Dragonknight learned when_  
_He fell in love with Naerys._

_Being the younger brother he_  
_Had no claim to throne or land._  
_King Aegon, called the Unworthy,_  
_Had the right of Naerys' hand._

_Prince Aemon loved her anyway,_  
_Though she married a monster._  
_And promised on her wedding day_  
_He would always protect her._

_Before the tournament he placed_  
_Three tears upon his sigil_  
_And donned a helm that hid his face_  
_So he could keep his vigil._

_Her husband would have liked her shamed;_  
_He did not love her truly._  
_But Aemon won so she was named_  
_The Queen of Love and Beauty._

_She never smiled, but for him._  
_Prince Aemon served her every whim._  
_Even the strongest knights are helpless_  
_Confronted by a lady restless._

_None doubted her magnanimity_  
_but for one knight, Ser Morgil._  
_He accused her of adultery,_  
_Because he was so evil._

_When Aermon heard the slander_  
_Of his lady love's virtue_  
_He rode to defend her_  
_And slammed his lance home true._

_Just knights are not defeated;_  
_In battle they are never floored._  
_Yet faced with love what can they do?_  
_The heart is never conquered by the sword."_

As soon as she finished she gave a deep curtsy, to much applause. Little Robert cheered the loudest. Her nervousness had passed, and Sansa found the smiles of their guests were infectious. Before she returned to her seat she remembered to look to Sandor Clegane, _so he will know I thought of him_, but he was not smiling at her, he was staring at her with his jaw set.

"Good show, my lady," Ser Morton told her when she passed. Petyr gave her a warm smile and passed dessert her way. Others shouted compliments over the heads of other guests. She thanked them graciously and two gruff bannermen set to outdo each other as soon as she took her seat across from them.

"Your voice was lilting," said one.

"High enough to reach the heavens," the other said, more to his neighbor than to Sansa.

Harry inclined his head to her. "You were so quiet I could barely hear you." His tone, she thought, was critical. Before she could respond, Littlefinger was calling for a toast.

"For we of the Vale of Aryyn, the Harvest Feast marks the end of autumn. It is the last celebration before the coming winter makes food scarce, nights cold, and travel next to impossible. Enjoy the hot food and warm hospitality our Lord Aryyn has shown you tonight, because soon we will not even be able to inhabit the Eyrie." Robert nodded violently, but only from agreement, and Petyr went on. "Winter will test the bonds between our houses and our families, as scarcity burdens those of us responsible for others with the mean task of survival. Winter is also a time for families to come closer together, as hardship tests our loyalties, and difficult weather keeps the outside world distant. So I would like to use this gathering of our extended family as an opportunity to announce the formation of a new couple. May they grow close over winter. Congratulations Ser Harold Hardyng on your engagement to my daughter, Alayne Stone."

Sansa's stomach dropped as sure as if she'd jumped out the moon door. Hoots and cheers went up, and the clatter of mugs and wine glasses. The band played a lively song. She looked from Petyr to Harry. Men clapped him on the back. He jested back with them, but did not have any words for Sansa. She would not be able to make them out anyway. She was watching this from outside herself; this was not really happening to her; this was the fate of some other girl. Alayne.

She looked down the table at Sandor Clegane, who knew she was really Sansa, but he had no words of praise or sorry for her, his mouth busy on the end of a goblet. The sellsword on his right made some bawdy joke, and he finished the cup in one draught. Despite the congratulations of the people around her Sansa found no joy from them could reach her, and sought her solace in the fudge.


	4. 4: SANDOR

_Thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone who leaves a review! This chapter has a major spoiler from A Clash of Kings. _

_I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire series or have anything to do with its creation or publication. All credit goes to George R. R. Martin.  
_

_Enjoy!  
_

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CHAPTER 4

SANDOR

Sansa's handmaid, the young one with dark curly hair, came out of the washing room around midnight. The fire inside sent a warm draft out the door. The Young Falcon swooped down on her before she closed it.

"Tell me, Megga" whispered Harold Hardyng, "is my betrothed really a maiden?"

The girl giggled. "Moreso than you, my lord, I'm sure."

Their whispering woke Sandor up. He'd fallen asleep in the hallway, drunk. There was the sloppy sound of kissing, and then the tap of Harry's boots against the stone muffled Megga's slippers as the two ran off to find more private quarters.

Sandor lurched to his feet. His head was pounding. He couldn't remember what happened at the feast after the toasts, but he could guess. It made him dizzy to stand up. He leaned back against the wall and slid down again, his wrists resting on his knees.

Maybe he fell asleep again. When he came to, Sansa came out of the laundry room with a basket of white sheets.

"Sansa Stark," he growled. She jumped at hearing her name spoken in what she must have thought was an empty corridor. Her eyes followed the sound to Sandor crouching in the shadows. "You were a highborn lady when I met you. Almost a princess. Now you're a bastard. Next time I see you, you'll be raising a few of Harry's."

"You're cruel." She turned her nose up and headed down the corridor. The torches in the wall brackets were burning low. He followed her.

"What? Don't you want to marry Harry?"

"No."

That surprised him. Harry was young, and rich, and handsome. A few bastards came with the territory. What more could a stupid girl like Sansa want? "Maybe you'll be a bard then. You're good at singing, and choosing one more name won't make much difference to you." He tried to think of a good nickname for bard-Sansa, but it was too much trouble concentrating.

"Did you like the song I sang today?"

"Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight?" In truth, he had not liked that song at all until he heard Sansa sing it. "I'm not sure Harry wants to hear his lady wife singing about infidelity." The part about being married to a monster might cut deep, so Sandor kept his tongue quiet about that. "Maybe you should have chosen a different song. There's one about a maid locked in a tower. Seems appropriate, since you're stuck here at the Eyrie."

"I'm not his lady wife." They were at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the floor her room was on. She stopped. He thought she would tell him to go away, but when she turned to him she did not look angry, but pained. "That song was for _you_."

Before he could say anything (not that any reply jumped into his mind) she ran up the stairs. He ran after her. She left the door to her room pushed open, her hands full with the basket, and he slipped in behind her. She set the sheets down on the bed at the far end of the room and turned around just as the door clicked shut.

Sansa froze. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to talk to you."

"If Petyr knew you came in here . . ."

"Are you going to tell him?" he scowled.

"No . . ." Sansa looked him over, then sat down to fold her sheets. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I want to apologize. I don't care much for the song," he took a few steps towards her and his heavy boots shook the room's wood floor, "but you sing beautifully, Sansa."

He thought she rolled her eyes, but maybe they were just following the sheet she folded as she raised it.

"I'm sorry," he said again. He wanted to explain the way hearing her sing made him feel, so she would believe him. "The way you sing, it's inspiring. Your voice is so delicate." It was paper-thin, really, and he didn't add that he wanted to fuck her screaming until it tore. "I was just being . . ."

"_Mean_," she suggested.

"Yes."

"_Rude_."

"Yeah."

"_Mocking_."

". . . Okay." He wondered how long they could go on like this. "Let me make it up to you."

"_How_?" Delivered in the same tone as before it sounded more like an insult than a question.

"However you want. Anything to satisfy a lady's whims, right?" She did not return the smirk he gave her.

"You can start by opening up my chest, so I can put my sheets away."

"All right." The chest was next to Sansa's bed, facing the mirrored wardrobe on the opposite side of the room. He crossed over to it and lifted the lid. It was empty for the most part, except for some folded clothes and an old pair of dress shoes, and a dirty sheet tucked into the corner beneath them.

"I think you forgot to wash one," he said, and reached down to pick it up. There was blood on it. He got a perverse pleasure from touching it, wondering if it was from her menses or a kind of souvenir from her wedding night. As he brought it out and saw it wasn't a sheet at all, and vertigo struck him. It was the old white cloak he wore as part of the Kingsguard.

"Why do you have this?"

"Uhm. You left it in my room."

"But why did you _keep _it?"

Sansa had gone as white as the sheets she gathered to her chest. She mumbled something into them.

"What did you say?" "

I guess I thought it meant something."

"Like _what_?" It came out more biting than he intended it to.

"I don't know!" she huffed, angry. "You came into my room-you were sleeping in my _bed_-and you promised to protect me, and then you kissed me and left _that _there."

Sandor dropped the cloak back into the chest with a laugh. "I never kissed you."

"What?"

"I said, I never kissed you." He sauntered over to her and her composure dropped like a curtain before a play.

"I think you did, uhm," Sansa had got up to put her laundry away, but now she took a step backwards. "At King's Landing. You told me you would take me from there, if I wanted, but I couldn't and you . . . that's how I know you like songs," she finished with a blush.

"Right." _Too polite to mention I had a knife at her throat. _"But I never kissed you." He took another step forward, and Sansa backed into her bed so suddenly that she sat down. "That's not fair."

"W-what?"

"You have a memory of kissing me, but I don't have a memory of kissing you." He leaned forward and put his hands on the bed, on either side of her. He had been like this, almost on top of her. Did she _want _him to kiss her? It seemed outside the realm of possibility, even now, but as he looked at her he allowed himself to think of it.

Sansa looked at his arms, from one to the other, like they were independent of him. "I guess it's not. I-you're scaring me-oh-"

He brought a hand up to her face. She stiffened and closed her eyes. He dragged the calloused thumb of his sword hand along her jawline. On him, that was the side of his face that was disfigured, but hers was as smooth and flawless as fresh snowfall. She was warm though, and matched on both sides. When he got to her chin he lifted her head up to look at her face, and her lips parted.

She'd grown into a beautiful woman-well, nearly. The fleshy roundness of a child's face was almost completely replaced by the clean, strong lines of adulthood. Her breath was coming out in shallow gasps and her auburn eyelashes were squeezed shut tight above her pinkened cheeks. He hadn't meant to scare her, though, so he dropped his hand and stood up.

"I can't believe you thought I kissed you," he said, feeling like a little boy gloating over some compliment. The mirror was on his left. He turned to the side and tried to imagine what his face would look like whole, but the image vanished as soon as he faced the mirror and the reality of his crisped face stared back at him.

"Did you really not?" Sansa asked, sounding a bit dazed.

He shrugged. "I might've. I was dead drunk. If I did, I don't remember."

"Well . . . maybe you just forgot." She went over to the chest and knelt to pack her things away.

He watched her through the mirror and thought about what she said. She moved gracefully even when she thought no one was looking. "No," he decided. "If I kissed you, I would remember."

She shut the lid and they turned to face each other. "Did you think of anything you want?" he asked.

"I want . . ." she looked through him, past him. "I want my family to be together again. I want to be safe with them in Winterfell."

"Winterfell's a ruin," he reminded her.

She didn't seem to be listening. After a moment she stood up and smoothed down her skirt. "It's late. I want to go to sleep now."

"All right."

Harry was an idiot, Sandor decided, for chasing after her maid while Sansa was alone in her room. She poked her head out the door to make sure no one was coming down the hallway, but it was deserted at this late hour. It would mean his head if anyone saw him leaving.

"Thanks," he said.

"For what?"

"Singing."

"Oh," she smiled warmly and looked like Sansa even under her disguise of dark hair. "I suppose I can't be with her, but knowing my sister is alive is the next best thing."

He nodded and lingered there while Sansa gazed up at him. "So, what was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"_Kissing_."

"Oh, you!" she hissed, and pushed him out the door. "Get _out."_


	5. 5: SANSA

DISCLAIMER: I don't own ASOIAF series, its characters, the setting or even the best lines in this fic. All credit goes to George R. R. Martin whose work inspired me to write this story.

_Thank you for reading! I love to hear from you, even if there's something you don't like. Something you do is cool, too._

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CHAPTER 5

SANSA

The morning brought clear skies and many of the guest were leaving. Sansa raced to find Sandor Clegane to know if he was one of them. She found him in the hall outside the common room where breakfast was being served. The passageway opposite the wide staircase led beneath the castle to the Eyrie's entrance. It seemed to Sansa like the maw of some great monster.

"Are you leaving?"

"Yeah."

Someone came out the side door to the common room and she heard the clattering of dozens of people eating breakfast. Then the door closed, the person passed, and she and Sandor were alone again.

"You better go," he said, breaking the silence. "I'm waiting for Baelish."

"I'll go." She turned her attention to one of the great tapestries that warmed the walls, like she'd just come down to admire it, and traced her finger over the designs in the fabric. "You're right, you know. It isn't fair, but it wouldn't be fair either way."

He cocked his head. "What are you saying?"

"It wouldn't have been fair if you really had kissed me. Because after that you left King's Landing, while I stayed and suffered."

He looked struck. To see him so hurt her as well and she couldn't hold his gaze.

"I wanted you to come with me. It was not my decision to leave you."

"You did, though."

He crossed to her so swiftly she backed into the wall. The stiff fibers of the tapestry dug into her back.

"You think I'm a coward. Is that it?"

"No," she answered truthfully. He looked terrifying when he was angry, but she forced herself to look at him.

"The offer is still open, Sansa. Let me take you from here."

She almost asked, "To Winterfell?" but she knew what he would say. And he was right, for how would they get there? Who would help them? She knew it was impossible and her eyes started to burn from the effort of holding back tears. "I can't," she said.

"_You're_ craven," he barked at her. "You wouldn't go with me then, and you won't come with me now."

His words cut into her like ice and tears welled at the corners of her eyes. That was how Petyr Baelish found them, descending the staircase with Lothor Brune at his side.

"Sandor Clegane," his voice rang through the hall and Sandor snapped to attention. "Are you bothering my daughter?"

"No, father," Alayne cut in, keeping her eyes squeezed tightly shut so he would not see her tears fall. "I just came down for breakfast."

"Off with you, then. I'll join you in a moment." Brune gave her an appraising look before she hurried through the door.

Sansa chewed her biscuits and eggs slowly, but was still half done before Petyr came to join her. He usually sat at the high table when there were guests, but this was an informal breakfast.

"We don't have to worry about Sandor Clegane any longer," he told her while he filled his plate. "He'll take his ransom and leave-to the Free Cities or someplace similarly far away, I hope, and I doubt there's a soul in the Seven Kingdoms who will be sorry to see him go."

Alayne said nothing. She felt like a part of her-the last part that was Sansa-was leaving with him, and she was about to lose them both, forever.

"I'm not entirely sure he didn't recognize you, but don't worry. Imagine what Cersei would do if he ran back to her with his tail between his legs-Joffrey didn't last so long without his sworn shield. Not that him being there would have helped," he winked at her, "though I could have kept him here if I thought he'd pose a problem."

_Would you have kept him willingly, or as a prisoner like myself? _she thought bitterly. "Clegane does not seem the type of man to be easily kept," she ventured.

"You misunderstand me." He pulled a platter of berries nearer to his plate. "You should try these; they will be hard to come by when winter comes. No, I wouldn't have to shackle him to a dungeon wall. He asked to stay."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. "Why would he . . ." she started to ask, then shut her mouth. She did not want to arouse his suspicion, but Petyr noticed nothing beyond her curiosity.

"Well, it could be a ploy to betray us and regain favor with the Lannisters. Otherwise, what better place to hide from the world than deep in the Vale? Surely you know _that_, Alayne," he smiled knowingly.

_That is not the reason, she knew_. She felt sick.

"Of course I refused. He's got a good arm-no one's denying that-and a good price, too, but he's dangerous; unstable if you ask me. And we can't have soldiers who run off during battle. That man's reputation has gone to rot. Alayne, you really must try these berries."

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself," he pushed the plate away, and took her hands in his. "To happier matters-you haven't told me what you think of the prosperous union I arranged for you."

The words came out in a rush. "Why didn't you tell me? I never met Ser Harold before yesterday. How could you think I want to marry him? I don't even know him."

"No," Littlefinger conceded, his thin lips tightening, "but Harry is near your age, quite dashing, and the heir to the Eyrie, after our young Lord Robert."

_He means to kill the boy_, Sansa knew. The realization did not make her any more comfortable about the arrangement. "You could have asked me."

"Told you, you mean? A match like this is quite above your wildest dreams, Alayne, but you seem quite ungrateful. Cat must have spoiled you when you were younger."

She was so used to their ruse that it took her a moment to register her mother's name. That upset her. "I'm not spoiled. It's sudden, that's all."

"Then I have your consent?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Petyr patted her hand. "I understand. You have qualms about getting married. That's fine. Think on it, and let me know tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Father." It was true. After Joffrey and Tyrion, Sansa did not want to get married again, and she had trouble separating how Alayne felt from that.

"_Try _to consider the fact that he's perhaps the most eligible bachelor in the seven kingdoms when reaching your decision."

Sansa sighed, and tried to imagine what her life would be like as Ser Harold's wife. They were well-matched, both being heirs to one of the seven kingdoms, and he was the type of man Alayne would grasp for beyond hope. There really was no reason to say no, for either of them. The thought of being married again still brought a sour taste up from the back of her throat. She would be at her husband's mercy and, until Harry's inheritance brought him back to the Eyrie, Lady Waynwood's. She would have no friends to take with her to her their house, but then again she had no friends here, either. Ever since she left Winterfell, her birthright, she had been at the mercy of others. If she was there, at least she could set some of the terms of her marriage, but as Petyr's daughter she depended on him for everything. She wondered if she had aroused some doubt in him by complaining so much about the announcement when she had such little say in her own fate anyway, and decided to apologize. "I'm sorry, Father. I only meant that it would be a trial to leave you."

Petyr responded with a glint in his eye. "Have no worries, my dear. My plans never have you far from my side for long. It may be premature to say this," he hesitated, something he rarely did. "But I have even entertained the thought that, at a later date, we may get married."

She was flabbergasted. "I'm your _daughter_."

"Yes," he squeezed her hands. "But Sansa isn't."

He had not spoken her true name since they came to the Vale. Her mind ran through the possible scenarios of how her marriage to Ser Harry could play out, but came up short of ending with her married to Littlefinger. There were plans beyond her own marriage he would not share with her. She pulled her hands away, confused about his motives, and rose from the table.

"It's just an idea I wanted to share," he said dismissively, ignoring that she recoiled from him. "Think on Harry, and let me know in the morning."

She bowed her head to take her leave, unable to even open her mouth, and took the stairs up to her room as though in a dream. The castle never felt so dark a prison. She had no control over her own life, and she was frightened. When the door clicked shut behind her she started to sob, and almost as soon as she opened her mouth she threw up. She ran for the bedpan across the room with one hand over her mouth and vomited her breakfast into it.

"Father," she moaned, thinking of Ned Stark and how he'd been beheaded on the church's steps. "Lady." Her direwolf had also lost her head. Sansa shuddered, thinking that the dead could not help her. The next name she called out was only a whisper.

"Sandor." He'd left her again. They'd all left her. _He didn't want to_, a voice inside her said. _He wanted to stay_.

Yes, but he couldn't. And she couldn't go. She had to stay here and play a pawn in Littlefinger's game. Helpless and angry, Sansa crawled over her bed to the window at its side. Black thunderclouds loomed over the mountains in the distance, but it didn't look like they would reach the range the Eyrie was on at least until tomorrow. That meant clear skies and sunlight on the Vale's rolling hills. Crossing the valley, she could make out the speck of a horse and its rider.

A kind of fit seized Sansa and she reached under her bed for the tooled leather saddlebag Petyr had given her along with the horse he didn't ever want to let her ride. The horse and bag were gifts imported from Dorne to help her out of the Eyrie when winter came and also, she saw them now as going-away presents. After Sandor had left her room yesterday she'd carefully packed everything she thought she'd need for a trip to the north, knowing it was wishful thinking. Now she asked herself why she'd done that, if she hadn't meant to go. The risks of travel would be better than what waited for her here. She pulled on her riding boots, picked up the bag, threw on her warmest cloak, and snuck out of the castle.


	6. 6: ARYA

_Okay, I try to update once a week, but I had some trouble with this one._

_It's long though! There's tons of action, and it can be read as a stand-alone story. If you're not into that kind of thing or don't want to read it because it is not a Sandor or Sansa chapter, go ahead and skip it. This is my take on Arya's Assassin Training._

DISCLAIMER: I don't own ASOIAF series, its characters, the setting or even the best lines in this fic. All credit goes to George R. R. Martin.

* * *

CHAPTER 6

ARYA

After Arya left the Hound to die by the Trident, she took a ship from Saltpans east to Braavos, where she found the school for assassins run by the Faceless Men. In the same fashion as that of warrior monks the school was located in a temple, and its disciples were bound as much to their studies as to the service of their God. In this case the temple was the House of Black and White and their God was He of Many Faces.

He was Death, Arya knew. All people bowed to Him at the end of their lives no matter which or even if they worshipped God. Arya did not find it strange that He had a religion, temples, and a guild dedicated to serving Him. She herself had been praying to Him for years before she went to sleep: _Ser Gregor, Ser Illyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei._

Still, when she found the temple, she was not sure such a secretive group would accept her. But Jaqen's coin had been her ticket into the school and she got off easy on the regular entrance examination. Best of all Jaqen was there. "A man grew tired of war," he told Arya when she asked what he was doing at the temple, "and wished to return to the last place he called home." Once a week he sent her and the other students on errands that tested their cunning and ability. Arya knew these were really trials to gauge their potential as assassins. They had a contortionist from Yi Ti who taught them flexibility, agility, and ease of movement. It progressed naturally to different types of fighting. Arya was the best in her class at weapons. Her teacher, a dark haired Lyseni sellsword, was not so surprised when she learned that Syrio Forel was her first dancing master. Then there was the Kindly Man, who taught them religion and doled out domestic tasks. Arya quickly settled into the routine of studying, cleaning, and worship that was temple life. It was almost like having a family again.

That was three years ago. Before Arya could graduate to the senior level of her schooling, she would have to pass a test. And this time, she would get no special treatment.

"Not all of you will make it," Jaqen warned them, "and some of you may die." He took them to a temple in the desert. It had the same black and white emblem on the door as the temple in Braavos; a half black, half white circle. It was a single story tall and sand dunes on all sides threatened to engulf it. _This doesn't look like a temple_, Arya thought, _it looks like a tomb_.

The students huddled past the twin cobra statues guarding the entrance. Dim and orange, light and sand fell to the stone floor from square holes in the ceiling. There were three doors besides the one they came in on, one for each wall of the building. Jaqen read to them from the stone tablet in the center of the floor, but after that he was silent.

"_Three doors, there are,  
__One South, One West,  
__It's up to you to choose the best._

_One East, and then  
__The North makes four,  
__But we can't choose that anymore._

_And when two friends  
__Have solved this test  
__Follow them; count by their success._

_So choose in time,  
__Don't ask, which door?  
__Choose North and also one before."_

_A riddle_, Arya knew, but she did not know the answer. The students stood in silence, each of them mulling it over.

"'Don't ask . . . choose North?'" one of her classmates shrugged. "I'll just go out the front then."

_It's not a choice_, Arya thought, but she held her tongue. To her surprise, it wasn't even locked. He pushed it open and she and the other students just had time to hear him say, "But this isn't-" before it slammed shut behind him.

After that the silence was heavy, the room dark and uncomfortable. Arya ignored it and tried to focus on the words on the plaque in front of her. _North makes four. Choose in time, don't ask which door._

"The one before north is east, am I right?" a dark-skinned Summer Islander asked Jaqen with her hands on her hips. Jaqen remained impassive. "You have to tell them if I'm right; it says so in the riddle."

Arya thought it obvious the girl was wrong; the riddle stated plainly that the door didn't matter. But what did? Jaqen said nothing. They heard a guttural scream before the eastern door closed behind her.

Now some of the students were fidgeting, plainly frightened. Arya bit her lip and ignored them, trying to concentrate. _Choose North . . . which is four . . . choose fourth and also one before!_

"I want to go next!" she stood right up next to Jaqen. He nodded. Arya scrambled away from her classmates. The next one to go, by logic or chance, would be safe. But how many after that would figure it out?

"Arya!" One of the boys called out her name. It was Gogo, a Dothraki who had found his way to Braavos after a war with a rival khalasar left him orphaned. Arya liked him; his strong physique reminded her of Gendry, and his appetite of Hot Pie. "Which door are you going through?"

She mused for a second over giving up the answer to the riddle. Knowing what order it was solved in was a big help; the hint was even written in the riddle. But once you knew the answer, deception was part of the test. Once too many of them solved it too late, the game would turn to fighting. Gogo was good at fighting, but she didn't think that he was very smart. So she settled for a hint.

"Whichever one I want," she said, and went through one of them.

It was dark at first. Her eyes took a moment to adjust and make out the passage in front of her. She kept one hand against the stone walls and grabbed the first low burning torch she came across. She could hear the squeaks of rodents or bats and something else-metal sliding against stone, a sound like someone polishing a sword.

Arya gripped Needle in her left hand, the torch in her right. The path she followed intercepted another, and she had to decide if she would follow along the stone walls or go straight across. In the meantime, the sound of whetted metal grew louder.

She looked down and saw a rope running taut along the floor. It was attached to a metal blade set in grooves along the wall at the perfect height to cut her legs off at the calf, and it ran quick enough to do the task cleanly. Arya leapt over it easily to continue on the straight path-and smacked into a pane of glass blocking her way.

"Ow!" The glass must have been thick because it didn't break when she ran into it, just wobbled a bit. She rubbed her nose and almost tripped over the low-running rope at her feet. She bounced on her heels and hurried backwards to get out of the passage before the next blade passed by-and smacked into another pane of glass.

"OW!" She slapped her hands against the glass in disbelief. _When did this get here! _Her forehead burned where she'd hit it, but a feeling of urgency replaced the pain. She had to move. She was trapped in this corridor with swift-running slicers headed her way.

Arya threw the torch and it bounced off the blade heading towards her. With her other hand she cut a wide arc and severed the rope at her feet.

She expected the blade to stop, but instead it shot away from her at an alarming speed. She didn't hear it collide with anything and something, maybe instinct, made her throw herself into the air in a backwards leap. She landed and leapt again, light on her feet as a bird taking flight, and tried to throw her arms and legs out to catch the wall.

She leapt over two blades, which lost their momentum and clattered at the end of the passage. A third she hadn't known about sailed under her while her nails dug into cracks in the stone. Her feet slid against the wall to hold her up, rather like a good imitation of a cat scrambling down too steep of a tree. She'd made it past them. She hopped down to retrieve Needle, and followed the way the blades had come.

There was a set of stairs here with a hole cut into them at the top for the pulley system that had dragged the blades along the floor. The stairs wound down into darkness. At the bottom was a thick stone door. Without knob or hinges Arya first took it for a solid wall, but her hands traced designs over its surface that she couldn't see, and she found two grooves that could serve as handholds near the bottom.

Arya forced it upwards with all her strength. When the door was halfway up she rolled beneath it and pulled her foot through just before it fell back into place. It landed with an eerie clack that made her certain there was no going back.

This room was surprisingly well lit for being so far down. Orange light filtered through square skylights in each of the corners. Beneath each one was a mound of sand as tall as Arya. In the center of the room was a free-standing oval mirror. Arya walked up to it. Inside was the reflection of a girl, but it wasn't her. The girl in the mirror had no face.

Arya studied her for a minute, confused and a little bit disgusted. She peered behind the mirror, and the girl followed her movements exactly. She had Arya's clothes and Arya's body, but something was wrong with her besides the fact that she was missing a face. Arya looked at the girl in the mirror and spoke.

"You're not real."

The thing in the mirror had no mouth, and didn't answer. Experimentally, Arya struck out with Needle, jabbing it into the mirror-and felt a prick when the mirrored sword came out and poked her in the side.

Quick as a snake, Arya darted away. The thing in the mirror didn't. It stepped sideways and out of her vision. Arya craned her neck to see where it disappeared to, but it wasn't there. She felt a swish of air and brought her thin sword up just in time to feel it impact with another. She danced away, keeping her back to the wall for protection, and her eyes darted around the room for some sign of her opponent.

There was none. Her opponent was invisible. But there was sand on the floor. Arya hoped it could help her, and backed onto a mound of sand. Sure enough she watched as footprints from no one made their mark. As soon as she gauged the distance to be close enough she thrust out wildly. She could hardly believe it when her ears rang with the sound of steel swords clashing. The phantom danced away, Arya felt the parry and brought her sword up to meet her opponent's cuts with nothing but intuition to guide her.

_I can't fight like this! I can't even see!_ Arya's heart beat loudly in her chest. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_, she reminded herself, but fear was invisible and swords weren't. And what about phantom swords; how deep did those cut?

As if in answer, her shoulder exploded with pain as a blade cut into it. Arya rolled away and felt the thin sword rip out of her. She checked the mirror just in time to see her back to it, her arms raised in a triumphant overhead swing-but she was facing the mirror, so it couldn't be _her _back.

Arya dodged. She chewed her lip nervously, trying to think of something to do. The sand and the mirror had only helped so much. _Calm as still water._ She had to get a hold of herself; she couldn't fight like this. She tried to remember everything that Syrio had taught her, all the while sticking Needle out like an ant uses its feelers.

She remembered that he used to make her practice blindfolded. It wouldn't matter if she was blindfolded now, Arya mused. She couldn't see her opponent. But closing her eyes seemed borderline suicidal.

_The man who fears losing has already lost. _Syrio had taught her that, too. Putting her faith in herself and her training, Arya closed her eyes.

For a second everything was as dark as she expected it to be-and then, like an afterimage, the room formed around her. The colors seemed inverted. The sand was purple, and the light streaming down from the skylights was blue. Arya saw silver spots where her blood hit the floor, and there, outside of the mirror, was the faceless girl.

Something was different about her. She wasn't wearing Arya's clothes and was instead colored in shifting hues. In the center of her forehead was a bright red hole. It was like a gross, unformed eye. Arya raised her sword, and the phantom did, too.

Then she came at Arya. There was no hesitation. They threw their swords together and launched attack after counterattack. Arya met the demon blow for blow. It came after her again after each attack, not waiting a second, and Arya had to dodge and block and parry just to keep the phantom at bay. The thing was ruthless, fierce, and persistent-and Arya could tell that this was how she fought when she was at her best, giving it everything like she had nothing to lose.

She would just have to be better than her best. Arya moved the fight off the sand, where the traction made it hard for her to move her feet. The phantom landed where she had been in a jump attack and slashed out in a wide swipe, but Arya danced away. The thing didn't hesitate, and neither would she. Fighting defensively was not her way. The next time the phantom slashed at her, Arya knocked the tip of the sword away and launched her own attack. She spun Needle around and around, all the while risking cuts to her hand or face if her opponent could break out of their melee. But she kept the demon's sword locked with her own closed the distance between them.

They were close enough to kick each other when the phantom's sword escaped from Needle's charge. Instead of the swords sharpening each other there was the sound of one whipping through the air as the phantom sliced across where Arya's face had been. But Arya was ready for it. It was just the thing she would have done. She knelt, and thrust the point of her sword up and into the demon's forehead.

Arya screamed. There was a searing pain in her third eye. Her eyes-the gray ones-flew open and the sandy brown and yellow room tilted around her. She collapsed on the floor and Needle clattered away from her. Before she even caught her breath she grasped at the sword.

Once she had it in her hand again she realized that the horrible pain in her forehead was nothing more than a dull ache, or the memory of a dull ache, really. Arya crouched panting on her hands and knees. She felt nothing except tired from battle, and the little wound in her shoulder, though it was still bleeding, was not as bad as she had first thought. She looked in the mirror and saw only her own plastered forehead and panting horseface gaping back at her.

She pushed herself to her feet. There was a door opposite the one she came in on, looking invitingly easy to push open. She went through it and found herself standing in the first room of the temple. The light was fading; outside, the sun had almost set. Her back was to the door she first went through when she solved the riddle.

Jaqen H'ghar was waiting for her there. "Well done," he said, and gave her a smile.


	7. 7: SANSA

DISCLAIMER: I don't own ASOIAF or have anything to do with its creation or publication. All credit goes to George R. R. Martin.

_A very careful reader will notice that the layout of the Eyrie and its adjoining castles is not exactly like that in the books. Don't think too much; it's fanfiction!_

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CHAPTER 7

SANSA

The wind blew around the mountain and through Sansa's hair as she rode in the box down the side of the Eyrie. The turnkey manning the winch had barely glanced at her when she said she was going down to castle Sky, but she did not think the Master of Horse would be as easy to get by.

The Eyrie didn't have proper stables-there was no way for horses to get up the side of the mountain-but temporary structures had been added to the mule stables at Castle Sky to accommodate the horses of their guests. This was where Sansa's horse lived; a present from Petyr in preparation for their move. Relieved to be on solid ground, Sansa crossed to Castle Sky and headed straight for the lean-to tacked on to the stables.

Inside was a bustle of activity. A smith and his apprentice were shoeing a line of horses, and stableboys ran from one end of the barn to the other bringing saddles and gear to the horses. They were hard-pressed to get the horses prepared for the long journey home. The whole place smelled like leather and hay and iron.

Sansa marched to the rear where her horse was being kept out of the way. Lady Fair was a bay mare with disposition as sweet as her rider's. When she saw Sansa she whinnied and stuck her head out over the gate.

Sansa gave her an apple she grabbed on the way in. She stroked the horse's dark nose until a manure-stained hand gripped her shoulder and a scratchy voice edged with lower-class cant cut into her ear.

"Wotcher want here, girl?" Cadal, Sky's Master of Horse-a temporary position-wasn't much more than an up-jumped field-hand in Sansa's opinion. She threw back her shoulder and stepped away from him.

"That's no way to speak to me. My father gave me this horse and I came down to go riding. If you aren't going to saddle her yourself, get one of your boys to do it and leave me alone."

"Ridin', eh, not today yer not. Can't spare no boys to watch you."

She stamped her foot. "It's not my fault you waited with those horses. There's a storm coming and if I don't take her out today, I won't get another chance until we leave the Eyrie. Now saddle my palfrey!"

Cadal chuckled. "Bastard girl thinks she's a lady. No."

"My father treats me like a lady, and so should you. He said I could go riding. I came all the way down here, and I don't want to have to go all the way back up to the Eyrie and tell him that you wouldn't let me!"

"An' I don't want to go all up there and say I sent you out with no escort, 'cause we was too busy preparin' the horses to watch the little lady ride."

_So that's the way of it_, she thought, but luck was with her that day. As she averted her gaze her eyes fell on a newcomer to the stables, standing out from the rest of the servants because of his uncertainty and cleanliness. "I have an escort, though." She ran up to him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him up to the Master of Horse. "Timory is my escort."

"Is he now." Timory said nothing and offered no resistance to being pulled along, appearing smitten to be the object of Sansa's attentions. "I'll allow it, but don't take her too far, boy, just 'round these stoney tower parts."

Sansa bounced on her heels as Cadal left them to saddle their own horses and she set upon the task with gusto. Timory helped her lift the saddle onto Lady Fair's back, and when she was finally in one place tightening it, he spoke to her with some hesitation. "I'd be a fool to refuse an invitation to go riding with you, Alayne, but Ser Harry sent me down here to prepare our horses."

"Ser Harry won't mind you doing a favor for his betrothed."

"He might. We're to leave first thing tomorrow, you see."

"We won't be gone long," she assured him as she fastened the cinch. "We'll get yours ready now and do the others when we come back." He was supposed to do his own last, obviously, but Sansa pretended not to know that.

"I don't know . . . we came with six horses. I have to brush them, clean their feet, get new shoes if they need it, saddle them, and put the gear on when it gets sent down here."

Sansa left the bridle lax on Lady's face and turned to give Timory her full attention. "Please. You said yourself you're leaving today. We won't get another chance."

She didn't miss the blush that crept up his neck and felt a pang of guilt at all the trouble she was about to cause him.

"I'll get my garron."

He came back leading a shaggy gray-brown pony just as Sansa was attaching her saddlebag.

"What's in there?" he asked.

"Snacks," she lied, realizing she'd neglected to pack any food.

It took all of Sansa's self-control to lead her horse out of the stable at a walk, but once they were outside she mounted and set the pace at a brisk trot. Lady Fair was a Sand Steed from Dorne, with a lithe body made for running. Timory's little pony was just a hand shorter than hers, but its body was squat and tough and he had to canter on and off to keep up.

Once they were on the other side of the stone tower and therefore out of sight of the lean-to and the winch elevator, the steep path down to the Vale presented itself. If they continued straight around the castle walls the Gates of the Moon would mark the exit to the Vale, but Sansa had no hope of escaping that way. The green grass and sunlight of the open meadow beckoned outside the Eyrie's shadow.

"This is no place for a picnic. What do you say we ride down a bit, to the grass?"

"I don't know about that. The master said to stay around here."

The spongy turf of the Vale was hardly twenty meters away, though. "Don't be a bore," she teased him. "This place is hardly private." _Wicked words for wicked deeds._

Timory blushed; his expression turned resolute and he turned his horse down the mountain path. Sansa knew she had goaded him, but any feelings of guilt she had were replaced by a sense of urgency. She let him go on ahead of her and pick his way down the trail. As soon as they reached the moss and grass at the base of the mountain Timory seemed content to stop, but Sansa led Lady Fair past him. Freedom was before her in the form of a wide open plain and she was ready to gallop across it.

Timory brought his horse up alongside hers, but before he could say anything she suggested they have a race.

"_I_ was going to say we should stop right here. I really don't think a race is such a good idea."

"Yah!" Sansa kicked her horse and Lady stretched out her neck as she pulled into a gallop. A moment later she was tearing at the grass beneath the Eyrie and racing headlong out of its shadow and into the sunlit plain.

"Alayne!"

_Fly, Lady. Fly fast_. Sansa had never been an accomplished or intuitive rider and she could hear the hooves of Timory's garron beating against the rhythm of her own. If he caught her she was doomed, but his pony was stout and built for carting where hers was built for running and endurance. She prayed to the Gods for wings that would take her home. A voice cried out behind her, but Sansa didn't stop. The wind carried the voice away, and she and her horse across the Vale


	8. 8: SANDOR

___Thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed. Not that it's important, but this is my favorite chapter._

DISCLAIMER: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire series or have anything to do with its creation or publication. All credit goes to George R. R. Martin.  
I did make Timory up, in case you were wondering.

* * *

CHAPTER 8

SANDOR

Once Sandor passed into the low hills that hid him from view of the Eyrie he dismounted from his seveteen-hand stallion and walked alongside it with slow, plodding steps. The farther away he got from the castle the more he felt like he was making a mistake and, worst of all, there was nothing he could do about it. He thought that only his brother could make him feel helpless, but now he knew there was another.

"Sansa," he whimpered, his voice just above a whisper. Her body was the lyre and his heart was the string, each step he took a twist that pulled it tighter. He just had to get far enough away that it snapped, that's all, and then he'd be rid of her. He was a strong man and he would not let himself be defeated emotionally by a little girl, but he had no idea that riding away would be so hard; no idea that his spirit was so weak.

He reached the rainclouds that blotted out half the sky and fat raindrops hit him on the face. It suited his dark mood and the water running down his cheeks felt cathartic. He knew he shouldn't worry about Sansa, because there was nothing he could do for her. He couldn't force the people around her to treat her right, and she wouldn't let him take her away from them. He hated this, the whole thing felt like a repeat of King's Landing, except without the fire (thank the Gods) and he wasn't drunk.

The thought of drinking almost got him back on his horse. He had a bag full of coin, but he'd never get to an inn to spend it at this pace. He stumbled at the bottom of the hill and got ready to swing onto his horse's back. There was a crack of thunder in the distance and he heard Sansa call his name.

Sandor squeezed his eyes shut tight. It was bad enough that he had to admit to himself how strong his feelings for her were, but now he was bloody hallucinating. Why didn't he just get on the damn horse and leave? The wind rippled over the grass and brought the sound to him again.

_I'm going fucking nuts._

"Sandor Clegane!" He heard his name for a third time, louder and unmistakable. He turned towards the sound and there she was, racing towards him on a palfrey. As she got closer he could see the frothy sweat on the horse's chest and legs. It took long enough for her to reach him that he accepted she was not an apparition, but his elation was tempered by confusion. What in seven hells was she doing galloping alone across the prairie?

She stopped her horse when she was close enough for him to see the blush of exertion on her cheeks and smell the tired sweat of her animal. She jumped off the horse, ran the distance between them, jumped into his arms, and kissed him.

Every question and thought fled his mind then. None of it made sense, but none of it mattered. Sansa had her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to give him a long, close-lipped kiss on the mouth. He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him. She put her hands on his face, touching him like she couldn't believe that _he_ was there.

"Take me to Winterfell, please, take me home."

His brain was filled with an awareness of her soft body, her heady scent, the lingering sensation of her lips against his. "Okay," he said.

She smiled-a true smile, her eyes pinched at the corners-and kissed him again once, quick. Reluctantly, he set her down. He was so happy to see her he would have promised her anything, and taking her to Winterfell didn't seem so impossible just then. They would just have to take it one step at a time.

It was raining in earnest now, and it streaked down his face, but Sansa had her fox-fur hood up and stayed dry. Her horse was shivering and wheezing from exhaustion, its tongue lolling around its bit. "You rode that beast hard," he said, wondering how she planned to get anywhere on a broken horse.

"I had to hurry." When she said that she reached out and grabbed his hand, and his heart leapt into his throat. _How is she doing this to me. _It was no good-he would have to think clearly if they were going to make it.

"We have to hurry, if we want to make it off the Vale before Petyr Baelish finds you." _This is crazy, stupid. _"I don't know how we're going to do that when your horse is almost broken."

Sansa looked at her horse, dubious at first. It started to cough. She looked back at him, embarrassed.

"How much time did you buy us?"

"I'm not sure." She wrung her hands together. Sansa was an honest girl, not given to deception, and Sandor resolved to be patient with her.

"When will Baelish know you're gone?"

"By morning, definitely."

Sandor frowned. "Then how did you get out riding? He wouldn't send you out without an escort."

"That's true. I had an escort."

"So in the next few minutes, someone could come over that hill looking for you."

"Yes."

"Or in the next few hours, the company of armed men Baelish sends to find you."

Sansa blushed, realizing her mistake.

"What do you want me to do when they get here? I'm one man, Sansa, I'm not equipped to fight an army."

She got the faraway look in her eyes he knew from the hopeless and the dead. Sandor didn't want her moping, he wanted answers and a little more common sense from her in the future. That was if they had a future-worst-case scenario, Lothor Brune and Littlefinger's cronies would be on their way shortly and kill him when they found him leading Sansa off the Vale.

"Do you know if your escort went back to the Eyrie? Or did he chase after you?"

"Well, he followed me at first. But after that I don't know."

"You'd better hope he's the type to try and find you himself," Sandor grumbled. He pulled the packs off of Stranger's back and onto the ground to lighten the horse's load. "If I had any sense I'd take you back to the Eyrie right now. Tell Littlefinger I rescued you from some mountain men and claim a reward."

"Please don't do that."

"I won't," he muttered, and picked his Hound's helm out of the bag. He donned it and slid onto Stranger's back.

"Where are you going?"

"To buy a little time. Put those packs on your horse and head east. I'll catch up with you."

He rode over the hill she'd come down on and scanned the landscape. Grass waved over the plains, punctuated by rocky crags that punched through the turf; in the distance, the monstrous and mountainous Eyrie. Far to the west and hopelessly off her trail Sandor spotted Sansa's escort, an unarmored boy on a shaggy garron trotting in the direction of the castle. He was probably just now going back for help.

The wind in their favor and the boy's back to them, Sandor was able to canter Stranger within a hundred yards before kicking the horse into a gallop. Here was the edge of the rainwall and the sun broke through the clouds. They were almost upon the boy before he heard the thundering of hooves and wheeled his pony around. He should have just ran. Instead, he turned to see the Hound bearing down on him on his panting black war horse.

The garron whinnied and tried to run, but the boy held the reins, even though his only protection was the question on his lips. It was not enough. In one motion, the Hound drew his sword and cut through half the boy's torso. The pony, already terrified by the stallion charging down on it, screamed at the sudden and overpowering smell of blood and tried to sprint away, its rider bouncing loose in the saddle. Stranger overtook it with easy, loping strides, biting out at the other horse to herd it back the way they came. When they were close enough Sandor pulled the body off and let it fall to the ground. He grabbed the pony's reins and forced it to keep up with them, though exhaustion and panic interfered.

It was raining hard when he caught up to Sansa, walking lazily through the meadow. The rain _plink plink plinked _off his helmet. When she saw the garron, she went into a flutter.

"Where did you go?" she asked. "That's the horse Timory was on. Where's Timory?"

He jumped off his horse and Sansa did the same, flapping from him to the garron and back again. He redistributed the loads the horses were carrying, trying to guess which was the most tired, and ended up putting most of the packs on Stranger. Then he tied their reins together.

"There's blood on the saddle here," she pointed out. There had been a lot more, but the rain washed it away. "What did you do with Timory?"

"I rode him down."

That put an end to her questions. He lifted her onto Stranger's back and vaulted on after her. He picked up the reins and urged his horse on as fast as he felt he could go without killing the two being pulled along behind him.

Sansa shifted to look up at him, the rain splattering onto her face. Her complexion nearly matched the whites of her eyes in color. "I changed my mind," she said. "I want to go back. Take me back to the Eyrie."

He smiled at her through the teeth of his Hound's helm. She was so pretty, even when made pale from cold and fright.

"Not a chance."

He had Sansa Stark in his arms now, and he'd die before he let anybody take her from him.


	9. 9: SANSA

CHAPTER 9

SANSA

Sansa trembled, but it was not so much from the icy rain that pelted her as from being upset and frightened. She'd felt bad enough knowing that she would get Timory in a lot of trouble, but then the Hound had went and _killed _him. She knew that that was somehow her fault and the thought made her mind freeze up worse than her body.

She hung limp when Sandor lifted her off his horse and watched him unburden and hobble their animals near a rock formation. Petyr had said that he was a man of less repute now and she wondered what kind of man that meant he was, considering all the horrible things she knew about him from before. She didn't have to remember rumors because she _knew_. She had seen him kill and laugh about it, cut through peasants, and even remembered that time after she and her family had left Winterfell and Joffrey and Arya got in a fight-The Hound had chased Arya's friend down and brought his body back to their father in a bag. Now he'd went and killed Timory, who wasn't older than a boy, and unarmed besides. The Hound was bloodthirsty and ruthless, and she was alone with him.

The rock overhang gave some protection from the rain and Sandor crawled under it to lay down his bed. A new fear gripped Sansa when she saw the single squashy brown square poking out from beneath the rock. What if he tried to rape her? Mortified, she remembered kissing him. Now it seemed like an absurdly small price to pay for him to take her all the way to Winterfell. What insurance did she have that he would actually take her home?

The Hound gave her a sour look. "Did you pack a bedroll? I didn't see one on your horse."

Sansa shook her head, mute.

"Then you can share with me." His smug expression made her blood run cold, and Sansa crammed herself into the space where the rock met the soil, hugging her knees to her chin. Outside, the light behind the clouds faded away and came back as a flash of lightning. He'd held her at knifepoint at her room in King's Landing, she remembered, a detail she rued overlooking until now. Out here he wouldn't need a knife, because it wouldn't matter if she screamed.

Her worst fears seemed realized when the Hound poked his head in and told her to get out of her wet clothes. Sansa removed her cloak, but she couldn't bring herself to take off her dress, sopping as it was and clinging to her skin. Sandor sat with his back to her and removed his helmet and his greaves, leaving the armor in a pile and maneuvering under the rock in a way that left him mostly dry and free to pull off his boots and under layers of clothing. He took up a lot of space beneath the rock.

When he lay back and saw Sansa still huddled in her wet dress, he sneered at her. "Get out of your clothes. You're going to freeze."

Sansa's lower lip trembled, and she started to cry. He expected her to get in bed _naked _with him.

"What's the matter with you? Come on. This is a good bed."

"I can't," she choked. She couldn't just go to him willingly.

He looked at her a long time, but she couldn't read his expression with the darkness covering his eyes like a mask. She heard the heavy rain and peals of thunder. Finally Sandor swore, pulled on his boots, and left. When he came back he was wet from the storm and brought his sword with him in its dark scabbard. Sansa gave a little sob, thinking on how he killed Timory with it.

Sandor pulled off the top cover and threw his sword down on the middle of the wool inside. "There. Like a proper fucking knight. Are you happy?"

Sansa knew about the custom of placing a sword between a man and woman who slept in the same bed as a symbolic or, if left unsheathed, very real barrier between them. She didn't see how his sword could possibly offer her any real protection against him, but absurdly felt that much better for the gesture.

"Please don't look," she said, and took off her dress.

She wanted to leave her smallclothes on, but they were actually frozen stiff. She folded them under her dress and burrowed under the covers all the way to the crown of her head. She stopped shivering almost as soon as she got in. The inside was fleece, soft and already collecting her body heat. She felt the bed move when Sandor got in after her, and then she felt _him_, his warmth heating up the space inside the bedroll quicker for him in it. There wasn't a lot of space, but he was careful not to touch her. Sansa felt comfortable, if not entirely safe, wrapped in her pocket of fleece. She fell asleep with her knee resting on the scabbard.

In the morning Sandor and his sword were gone. Sansa poked her head out from the blankets, sleep leaving her as quickly as it had come the night before. She saw her tooled saddlebag resting near where she had crouched the night before. Sandor must have set it there after he got up.

She chose a long-sleeved tunic and some pants and threw the covers back only once she'd changed into them, to take full advantage of the bedding's warmth. That was when she noticed that it was snowing. In place of rain fat snowflakes spiraled to the ground from the gray cloud in the sky. Hardly any of it packed on the ground, disintegrating instead and turning the ground mushy. Sansa pulled on her shoes and gloves delighted anyway. This was a good omen for the journey to Winterfell, where she had first seen and loved snow. She twirled around and tried to catch a snowflake on her tongue.

Sandor came over the ridge behind the rock formation and Sansa stopped spinning and stood stock still as he approached her, feeling childish and a little afraid. He was carrying two dead pikas and grabbed her cloak off the top of the rock.

"I wrung this out for you," he said, handing her the scrunchy cloak. Drops of water still clung to the fine gray hairs, but it was just a little damp.

"Thank you," she managed, and put it on.

"We have to keep moving." He rolled up the bed and Sansa, feeling useless, went over to the horses, who were rooting for the last tender shoots of grass that sprung up before winter froze the Vale into a tundra. She put a bridle on Lady and led her over to the saddles, but Sandor was done packing everything on the other two horses before she'd even tied the cinch around Lady's belly. He came over and buckled it for her, then she climbed onto Lady's back and they were off.

The sun broke through the cloud in some places and by midmorning it no longer snowed or rained. At midday they dismounted for lunch. That they'd skipped breakfast was not lost on Sansa and she was hungry. Sandor gutted the mountain rabbits and cut the flesh into strips.

"Aren't you going to cook it?" Sansa asked when he held the raw strips out for her. They smelled dirty, almost like rusted metal.

"No."

Sansa wrinkled her nose. He put a piece in his mouth and gulped more of it down than he chewed. Sansa could not imagine smacking on the bloody flesh. She folded her arms over her stomach to try and keep down the sound of it rumbling.

"Aren't you going to eat it?" he asked, and she thought he sounded a bit mocking, but was too hungry to dwell on it.

"No."

He wiped his bloody hands on the grass and got up to rummage through their supplies. When he came back he gave her a roll of bread the size of her fist. She ate it, collecting the crumbs that fell in the palm of her hand, and ate those, too. Sandor helped himself to her share of the meat. It seemed a terrible waste to her as when they were done they left the skins and most of the meat on the grass, enough to make a soup or something, but he had killed two animals for a meal she hadn't even be able to stomach.

It got colder and colder as the sun went down, and when they stopped for the night Sansa begged him to make a fire. He refused. Without the prospect of a hot meal Sansa felt doubly hungry and complained about riding for miles and miles with nothing but a roll of bread in her stomach. Sandor told her to dig under the grass for some earthworms, and Sansa started to cry.

"Hey. Stop that. I was only joking. You can have some of this, all right?" He took more bread rolls out of the food sack, along with a slab of bacon, an onion and a wheel of cheese. Sandor cut her food for her with a pearl-handled dagger. They ate the bacon raw, but somehow that didn't bother Sansa as much as the pikas had. It was cured, after all. And she remembered tasting the cheese from her father-well, from Petyr's table.

Sleeping was not as awkward that second night, though she did huddle as far away from Sandor and his sword as she could manage. She had riding sores from being in the saddle all day and was relieved to rest on something soft. It was a good bed, a Sandor had told her, but she wished she had some ointment to rub on her skin, a hot bath for her feet, a tin of beeswax for her lips, which were horribly chapped, perfume to dab under her arms and neck, soap for her hair . . .

They had passed out of sight of the Eyrie long ago. Sansa wouldn't have been able to find her way back even if she had had the freedom to try. The landscape changed, becoming more rocky as they made their way to the mountain range on the western side of the Vale. If anyone was looking for her, they were miles and miles away.

After five days the mountains rose up on either side of them and the Vale became a valley between the ranges. At its narrowest point it turned into a path they followed into the mountains, climbing higher and higher until Sansa could turn around on her horse and see the Vale stretched out behind them. Then they passed into a gorge and she saw no more of it.

The path was natural in some parts, but carved into the rock in others. Sandor led them carefully along the mountainside, but did not speed up when the road between the mountains widened. She thought of asking him if they were lost, but the only way to go was straight. The horses' feet clacked against the stone and echoed off the walls of the ravine. He steadied his horse as she brought hers up to ride abreast of him. "Stay close to me," he growled under his breath.

After that they walked in step together. Sansa felt claustrophobic from the sheer cliffs rising several stories on either side of them. Behind them and as loud as the thunder from their first night, a rock tumbled down and cracked into a hundred pieces of shale. Sansa looked up to the precipice from where it fell and thought she saw something moving. That was when she caught sight of the three mounted figures stalking up the path behind them.

"Sandor?" she called uncertainly, but to no answer. Lady sidestepped into Stranger and they halted. Sandor's attention was already occupied, as three more figures appeared to block their passage ahead.

Three men coming up behind them, three men in front, and as they approached two more emerged on the cliffs on either side of them, holding slings. These were no knights of the Vale; they were mountain men. They were buff and bearded, each one covered in a hodge-podge assortment of armor astride their shaggy horses, but none of them wearing a complete set. Their raiment would have been a laughable corruption next to a properly adorned knight, but there was nothing funny about their scars. Each man had a part of his body horribly disfigured by burns.

The center man in front of them stepped forward. He was missing an eye. "You Westerosi trespass on the land of the Burned Men! This is my clan's land. I am Timett, son of Timett, and I will not let you scum trod on it unpunished."

"The Burned Men are vigilant," Sandor offered, "and we did not expect to pass this way unnoticed. That's why we brought a gift." He pulled on the garron's reins, bringing it to the front. "I'll give you this horse if you let us pass through here. Just pretend we aren't here, and we'll be on our way."

"Your horse isn't worth the dead bodies I piss on! If you wanted safe passage, you should have asked for it from your countrymen at the Bloody Gate."

Sandor frowned. "I thought it was a fair bargain, considering."

"No," Timett's eyes narrowed. "Knights do not come this way. You must be hiding something."

"I am," Sandor agreed. "This girl."

As if being in the presence of these men was not enough, each took a turn to look her over. Timett scoffed. "And who is she?"

"Do you remember where you got that armor?"

"You will answer me!" Timett roared, turning red-faced to match his scar. "Do not answer questions with questions!"

_He is afraid of being confused_, Sansa knew. That made her nervous-they were more likely to kill her and Sandor than negotiate, and Sandor did not have Littlefinger's persuasive tongue.

"I _am_." Patience on all sides was running thin. "You fought for the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, and he gave you those weapons and armor as payment. This here is his wife."

Sansa felt herself go as red as Timett. _Sandor knows_, she thought, and felt sick to her stomach.

"If it's his wife then what are you doing with her?"

"She was kidnapped by those Lords of the Vale you love to much. I'm taking her back to him. If you let us through, I'll be sure to mention how hospitable you were, and he'll reward you. Send you some more of that good steel to kill your mountain brothers with."

_No. Please_. But Sansa could not beg him in front of these men, who would kill them so easily.

"Ha! If that's really his wife she's worth more than that pony. I'll take her back to the halfman myself."

"No." Sandor reached behind her and grabbed her hair. He pulled her against his chest and tilted her head back. With his other hand he drew his sword and held it an inch from her throat. "This is my prize, to keep or kill."

No one moved. Then Timett laughed, and a second later the canyon echoed from the laughter of all his men. "The halfman sent a fine knight to protect her! And after you spill her blood what's to keep us from spilling yours?"

"Nothing, save that I'd take a number of you with me." He tightened his grip on her hair and she whimpered.

"And what number is that?"

"Not counting you, Timett . . . seven."

"Hahaha!" Timett laughed, and then louder. "HAHAHAHA! If that is true, then we can use you. The Burned Men are at war with the Moon Brothers. We need steel, and the halfman needs his wife. You will tell him to send these to us?"

"On my honor as a knight," Sandor said, and shoved Sansa away from him. Her scalp tingled as the blood rushed back to her head.

"Your knight's honor is not good enough!" Timett bared his teeth at them like a wild animal. "Come morning, the Burned Men will attack the Moon Brothers. We will take your pony and give you safe passage through our land. In return, you will tell the halfman of our agreement, and tomorrow you will lend us your arm."


	10. 10: SANDOR

CHAPTER 10

SANDOR

Like all clansmen, the Burned Men slept in huts half-buried in the ground, but their cluster of hovels was more a camp for barbarians than a proper village. Dogs and children scavenged through piles of refuse and unwashed women prepared stew in cracked cauldrons. If this was how they planned to weather the coming winter, Sandor found it unlikely that any of them would survive.

Timett, their Red Chief, was more concerned with the number of Burned Men that would survive tomorrow than that would survive a decade in the future. He led Sandor and Sansa to a row of tents tacked up along the mountainside and invited them to stay in one that used to belong to a clansmen named Grog, who had died recently, and for Sandor to join him for the evening meal. The women ate out of sight.

Sandor tied their horses outside and shoved Sansa into the tent. Timett's generosity did little to ease Sandor's discomfort. He felt nervous leaving Sansa alone in this environment, even if it was only for a little while, but he wasn't about to parade her aroun in front of the clan.

Timett was not the only one who thought that having a trained Westerosi swordsman improved their odds in the battle tomorrow. Sandor felt like a freak with all the warriors marveling at his height, his armor, and his scar. A toothless man served him a bowl of soup and he sat over it only long enough to avoid being rude, though he could only guess what constituted rudeness in this society.

When he finished he said he wanted to rest, and Timett excused him. "Sleep! Tomorrow we fight the Moon Brothers. Then you can win back a replacement for your missing ear!" This brought a gale of laughter from the clansmen. Sandor grimaced, but the clansmen didn't notice that his show of teeth was not a smile and their conversation turned to what body parts they would cut from their enemies as prizes. Sandor gathered a bowl for of food to bring to his lady and refilled his own.

Sansa jumped up when he entered the tent and ran to him when she saw the food. They ate sitting on the floor cross-legged.

"Sandor?"

"What?"

"There's a hoof in my soup."

He threw it out for her.

"I was so hungry," Sansa said after she poured the last hot drop in her mouth. She was tired, too, and curled up soon afterwards in a pile of furs on the floor. That left the goat's hair mattress next to it for him.

In the morning Sandor put on his armor. It was still dark, and Sansa was huddled asleep. He shook her awake and she sat up with the black furs covering her lap. Sandor placed his pearl-handled dagger in her hand.

"What's this for?" It was obvious she did not even know how to hold it.

"When I leave I want you to lace the tent up from the inside. If anyone tries to come in, you cut at them."

She looked terrified at the possibility. "What if they come in anyway?"

"Hide someplace, and if they find you swipe at them, like this." He took the knife and showed her how to hold it underhand and thrust. The doubt she had about being able to defend herself showed on her face, but Sandor hid it on his own. "I'll only be gone for a few hours. I'll be back before nightfall. I promise."

"But Sandor . . ." She took the dagger back into her hands, correcting her grip on it as an afterthought. "What if you die?"

"Then use that knife."

Sansa looked like she was about to cry. Sandor donned his hound's helm and left.

Dawn had not quite broke, but the camp was bustling with activity as men prepared for battle. Timett, drunk on excitement, came up to him while he was saddling Stranger.

"Today the Burned Men fight the Moon Brothers, and you fight as one of us!" he said. "But I think you were already a burned man before we met, no? Hahahaha!"

Sandor was not in the mood for japes. "I'm not," he pointed out, "and in fighting for you I risk not being there to fight for mine own."

Timett nodded. "The girl. You are worried men will use her while you are gone."

"If that's the plan, let me know. I'll slit her throat right now."

Timett got a laugh out of that, too. "My women will be sorry to see you go," he said. "You would make a good husband. No, all of the men, and most of the women, will go with us on the raid. Only the new mothers and the weak will stay behind."

Sandor spat. Timett was going to leave the camp undefended, but he couldn't do anything about it except hope no other clan would raid this one while he was gone. "If any men go in that tent I'll geld them myself."

They left at daybreak, traveling in a long column through the mountains. Stranger was not as sure-footed as the clansmen's bow-legged ponies, and Sandor dismounted to lead him on the rocky paths. He did not expect the clansmen to be disciplined in battle, but they got quieter as they got closer to the Moon Brothers' camp.

Timett sent scouts ahead and they came within sight of the Moon Brothers' camp unnoticed. This clan had settled in a basin, with stone walls on all sides and a frozen stream running through the middle of their camp. When the scouts returned, Timett gathered his army at the top of the basin. The Burned Men clattered their shields in a rhythm, as a war cry, faster and faster, until Timett gave the signal, and they charged down the slope.

Stranger had to pick his way down, so Sandor fell behind in the line of men. They were all silent except for the pounding of the weapons and armor. The Moon Brothers that were awake saw their enemies charging down on them screamed and a warning to the others. A few poked groggy heads full of sleep out of their tents to see what all the commotion was about before scrambling back inside to get their weapons and armor before the full assault began. Once in the valley Sandor kicked his stallion into a run and the destrier's long legs quickly brought him to the front of the charge.

There were no archers, grounded stakes, or pits. the camp was unprepared for the assault. Sandor cut down a screaming woman and ran in a straight line through the camp, chopping at anyone foolish or unlucky enough to come within reach of his sword. He broke through to the other side of the camp and wheeled Stranger around for another pass.

The footmen had not arrived yet, but the Burned Men with horses were tearing up the camp. What little order there had been was destroyed. They weren't quiet now, they were screaming with bloodlust as they took their axes and swords to the heads and homes of their enemies. Stranger jumped over a collapsed tent and on the other side three clansmen jumped out with the intention of unhorsing Sandor. One grabbed Stranger's bridle-the horse reared up and kicked with his front legs. The other two pulled Sandor backwards off his horse.

They hit him with clubs. The first blow struck his elbow; it didn't hurt so much as cause numbness in his arm and he dropped his sword. He felt for it on the ground as they dealt more blows. A vicious one on top of his head caused his helmet to ring and Sandor threw his arms up, but it was no use-without his sword he would never be able to fight them off.

Then Stranger was on them. He galloped over the tangle of men and Sandor caught a rear hoof in the back as he tried to roll away. The horse twisted around and stomped at a clansmen, even reaching down to bite at their faces. Sandor punched the man nearest to him with a left hook. With his other hand he sought his sword. He found it in the folds of the tent and thrust the point of it into the belly of the man who'd hit him on the head. Stranger trampled a man lying on the ground and Sandor vaulted onto his back.

The battle between clans was at its peak, and Sandor had a hard time telling the two tribes apart. They did not wear coats of arms to make it readily apparent which side they were on. When men ran at him or away from him, he cut them down. Every sound and sudden movement aggravated him, and he took it out on those who fell beneath his sword.

In the center of the camp, Timmett fought a woman wearing a necklace of human ears. None of the others interfered. Sandor saw the end of the fight. Timett cut her head half open with an axe, breaking the chain on her necklace, and the ears tumbled down her chest as she fell to her knees.

He yelled in triumph and held the body up by the hair. All around Burned Men beat their shields and the other clansmen ran or made their last, desperate attempts to fight. Sandor found it easy to run them down.

The Burned Men set to pillaging, but Sandor doubted he would find anything worth taking in the barbarians' camp, so he was in the first group to return home. Once the Burned Men had gathered all the fur, goods and women they could carry they started back to their own dwellings.

As soon as they were back he camp degenerated to a hubub of raucous activity. What could only be the clansmen interpretation of singing set Sandor's head to pounding. There was something of a feast prepared at the camp, but the Hound had a ripping headache and was not in the mood to celebrate. He didn't think his presence would be missed. His own neighbor took the woman he'd brought back with him into his hovel even before unloading his horse.

Sandor grabbed a young woman passing by on the arm and she looked at him with a rabbit's wide frightened eyes. Probably she thought he meant to rape her. "Bring me food, and water to wash with," he said, "and wine, if you have it." She ran off without saying anything, so he wondered if she would heed him. He couldn't go after her and make sure. He had to get to Sansa.

The tent was still laced shut, but when he called for her to open it, she didn't. He knelt down and reached beneath the bottom of the flap to undo the lace himself. He would have felt better if the dagger stung him, but it didn't. He wondered if she was even inside, but was too tired and irritated to think on what he'd do if she wasn't.

She was; sitting on the bed with her eyes shut tight and her hands over her ears. She wasn't even hiding. "Sansa," he said, walking over to her. She didn't hear him. "_Sansa_," he said again, and put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, but looked relieved when she saw who it was that had touched her.

"You're back!" All the harsh words Sandor had felt like saying to her, the admonitions for not even noticing someone coming in, left him. "I was scared. I heard screaming." She looked through the wall in the direction of their neighbor's hovel, where the woman's screams carried over into theirs. Sansa's eyes were wide and knowing.

"If she doesn't shut up soon I'll go stick something in her myself." Sandor threw down his sword. "Go lace up the tent."

Sansa's fingers worked slowly as she poked the lace through the double row of holes from top to bottom. Sandor removed his armor and his blood-stained clothes and lay down where she'd been sitting. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Aren't you going to eat something?" Sansa asked him.

He forced his eyes open. Now the tent was mercifully dark. Light broached the seams of the tent flap and he could tell how clumsily she'd laced it. He must have drifted off for a moment.

"Woman brought that," he said, eyeing the plate of shredded meat Sansa nibbled from. "Yeah. She dropped all this off while I was closing the door." Sansa held the plate of meat to him and when he sat up, his head swam. It hurt to chew so he sucked pieces of meat off the bones.

"Did she bring wine?"

"Sandor . . ." She gave him water and they ate in silence for a few more minutes. "Can we go after this?" He wasn't sure what she meant.

"After what?"

"After eating."

"No." The simplest answer is often the best one, and he didn't have the energy to explain to her how tired he was after battle.

"I really want to go," Sansa begged. The woman in the next tent was sobbing and wailing.

"No," he frowned at her. "I need to rest."

Sansa seemed to accept this and concentrated on eating, but when she looked to him again she sounded shocked. "You're bleeding!"

He looked over his body and saw, along with bruises, a cut on his leg. He wasn't sure when he had gotten that. "It's just a scratch."

"Let me wash it for you."

"Okay."

He lay back down on the bed. He felt better lying down. Sansa pushed the food away and pulled a basin of water and a towel up next to the bed. She sat by him and dipped the towel into the water. She hesitated before touching him. "It could get infected."

He closed his eyes and tried to close his ears to all the sounds except the dripping of the water when she wrung the cloth out in the basin. He couldn't stop the pressure in his head, but he tried to concentrate on the pressure on his skin instead. She washed his leg and soaked other parts of him with the cool water. When she scrubbed his hands he didn't pull away or ask why; he knew that they were bloody.

"Did you get hit in the head?" she asked, pressing the towel to it.

He didn't remember, but it certainly felt like it.

"Yeah."

They were like that long enough for the light outside to fade away, and the noise outside to settle down. Sandor was floating away in darkness when he thought he heard Sansa call his name. That was good. He was asleep and dreaming about Sansa Stark. But no, he remembered, rushing back. She was here with him, in this room.

"Mm." He threw a hand up to rub his forehead. "What?"

"Are you really going to take me back to the Lannisters?"

_Why would she ask me that?_ It made him sad. When he spoke, his voice was strained, like water through a sieve. "Do you want me to?"

"No." Then a woman's hands were on him, desperate, clutching. "_No." _

He opened his eyes, and the woman was Sansa Stark. "Then I won't."

He reached up to brush aside her hair and touch her face. He had to keep her safe and close to him. There was so much danger, and he could barely keep his eyes open. It was so dark now that he could barely see her, but that made him feel better, knowing that she could barely see him, too.

"Sansa . . . would you sleep with me?"

Her hands left him, a nervous movement, and he could tell she was about to get up so he grabbed her. "No," he said, frustrated. "Not like that." She tried to pull away but he held her fast by the wrists. "I'm too tired for that. Would you just lie next to me? I won't touch you, I promise. And I'm tired. I'm so, so tired."

At first he held her to him stiff, but as he spoke she relaxed her frigid posture and melted against him. His hands fell away from her and she settled in the crook of his arm with her head on his chest. It comforted him to know that she was near, that nowhere else could she be safer than in his arms. Somehow it was an even greater comfort than his sword, which for one night rested on the ground instead of between them.


	11. 11: SANSA

DISCLAIMER: I don't own ASOIAF, meaining the elements in this story like characters and setting are not my own. They belong to George R. R. Martin.

_Thank you to everyone who is following! (Caddaren, you make me feel like I have a fan.) I realize the story is a bit of a slow-burner. If you are feeling insatiable, you can check my profile for a lemony SanSan story I wrote earlier this year._

_Really big ASOS spoilers here! I suggest you just skip this if you haven't read that book yet._

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CHAPTER 11

SANSA

Sansa woke up earlier than usual and long before the Hound, who kept one arm around her the entire night. He growled when she slipped away from him and she moved more slowly so as not to wake him up.

His armor was scattered around the floor and Sansa used the rag and bowl to wipe the dirt and blood off of it. His clothes were on the floor, too, and she found his breeches torn where he'd been cut above the knee. She searched the hovel and found a box with flint, tinder, and a bone needle. She lit a torch to see by and hemmed the tears in his clothes. Afterwards she stacked her work near the bed and packed their saddlebags, and thought no harm would come to her if she stepped outside for a moment to ready their horses.

It had snowed in the night. She set the torch in the sconce at the entryway and walked over to the horses tethered outside. A day's rest had done Lady some good, but Stranger was asleep on his feet. Sansa was afraid of the ill-tempered horse and was as careful not to wake him as she had been its rider. She patted Lady on the nose and saddled her, speaking softly, but before she was done Stranger had his eyes open and his ears flat against his head. Sansa thought that she would chance brushing him since he looked so worn.

She didn't really like sticking her hand out to let him sniff the brush she used on Lady because she was worried he might try to bite her, but he just flared his nostrils and snorted. Sansa brushed the loose hair, blood, and dirt from his neck and back.

A man's hand on her shoulder pulled her away from the horse. She thought that was invasive of Sandor, and turned around to tell him so, but it was not he who had grabbed her. It was the Red Chief.

"What are you doing? Let me go!"

Timett kept his fingers locked around her arm. "You will stay with us. We will take you to the halfman for ransom ourselves."

"No!" she screamed, trying to pull away. "You promised us safe passage!"

He threw her on the ground and she landed on her hip with a yelp. "You will be safe enough once I get rid of your knight." He headed for the doorway.

"No!" Sansa yelled again. Sandor had heard Sansa screaming and was coming out. When he saw Timett he punched him in the mouth and the Red Chief fell to the ground, unconscious.

"Drag him inside! Before someone sees!" Sansa shrieked. She was in a panic. How long until the Burned Men realized Timett's plan to capture her had failed? _I have to do something!_

She grabbed the torch near the doorway and threw it on top of the roof. The flame erupted in a whirl and Sansa was overwhelmed by the smell of burnt hair when it jumped to the side of their neighbor's house. They were all made of timber and covered with dry grass and animal skins and in only a few minutes the entire row along the mountainside was aflame. But Sansa didn't see this, because she ran inside.

"Sansa! What the fuck is going on!" Sandor had his chainmail on and was putting on his tunic as smoke billowed in from a corner of the room.

"Just hurry!" He didn't have the plated armor for his shins and arms or his helm. She jumped over Timett's body to grab them. They were hot to the touch. "Here!" She handed him the pieces and noticed his hands shaking as he put them on.

Outside people were yelling, "Fire! Fire!" The clansmen hurried to throw snow on it and save their homes. A strange thought jumped into Sansa's mind as she stood so near the flaming hovels; _This is the warmest I've been since I left the Eyrie._ The horses were pulling at their tethers, especially Lady, her eyes rolling back in her head to show the whites. Sandor finished saddling Stranger, threw Sansa on and cut the horses loose.

Lady ran off, but Stranger held steady long enough for Sandor to jump onto his back. No one stopped them as they galloped out of the camp, but they didn't slow down for over an hour. There was a deep, fresh snowfall that Sandor pushed the horse through. When they were deep in the mountains and she couldn't smell the fire anymore Sansa leaned back nervously and asked, "Where'd Lady go?"

"She's right behind us."

Sansa twisted in the saddle to see if it was true, and there she was, keeping close even though she wasn't tied. "I want to ride her," Sansa said. Sandor's armor dug into her skin when she sat ahorse with him like this.

"You can, but keep up! The clansmen might be chasing us."

Sansa frowned; when was she ever slow? She started to dismount, but Sandor pulled Stranger to a halt and got ready to help her get down.

"I can do it myself!" she insisted. He was acting like she couldn't take any care of herself at all. She thought she'd done all right at the Burned Men's camp, and even had some bruises to prove it. But as she slid off Stranger's back she lost her grip and fell on the ground.

"Ow," she winced, bruising her other hip.

"Damn it, Sansa!" Sandor landed next to her as light on his feet as she wished she had been, his knees crunching into the snow. He picked her up gently, but his armor still pinched at her clothes.

"You're hurting me," she whined.

He practically threw her over the back of her horse. "We don't have time for this."

"Are you _mad _at me?" she asked, struggling to right herself in the saddle.

He didn't answer and kept their horses moving at a run. Sansa tried to shift her weight to keep it off her bruised hip, but it didn't really help and by twilight there were tears running down her cheeks. Sandor wouldn't stop for the night, saying that they needed more distance; it was too easy for the clansmen to track them through the snow.

By morning Sansa was exhausted. She didn't feel like she had a body anymore, more a bag of tenderized meat. They stopped that night, but when Sansa begged him to make a fire, he refused.

"No. Too easy for them to find us by the smoke," he explained, settling near a tree with his arms crossed to act as lookout for a few more hours.

She knew he was right, but she felt like he was making excuses. She was sore and cold, and she had seen his fingers trembling when they were in the burning hovel. Turning over in the bed, she managed sleep.

But if the Burned Men were tracking them through the snow covered mountain passes they would soon lose the trail, for in the morning Sansa and Sandor came to the western edge of the mountains where the grey stone dropped in sheer cliffs that shielded the woodlands from the mountain snowfall. They found a steep path down the side of a waterfall and walked carefully so as not to slip on the wet stone. Sansa gave a little sigh when they got to the bottom and could look up at the waterfall, frozen at the top but gushing from the middle with snowmelt that supplied the lakes and rivers west of the Vale with fresh water. There was even a rainbow formed by the spraying mist.

"Oh, Sandor, couldn't we stop here?"

He agreed. It was a good place to set up camp and regain their strength. There was fish in the river and the mist from the waterfall hid the smoke from their fire.

"Sansa, I've been thinking," Sandor said once they were settled into camp, eating what he had fished. "It's going to be a lot more difficult from here on out. Petyr Baelish and the Lannisters are looking for you, and Winterfell is just about the likeliest place to look. We don't even know who holds it, or if we'll be able to get past the Twins and Moat Cailin."

"So? Winterfell is mine by rights. We will win it back."

"You and me." He scratched the back of his neck.

"Yeah! We'll figure something out."

"That's not much of a plan."

"I guess not," she frowned. She had been so concerned with making it off the Vale and out of the mountains she hadn't given much thought to what they would do at Winterfell. "What do you think we should do?"

"Well, we don't have to go north. We could go south instead."

That puzzled her. "Why would we go south?"

"Well it isn't as cold, for one thing . . . and there will be more food. Maybe the Dornish will give you a castle," he suggested. "If not, it would be just as easy to take one from them as to take Winterfell."

Sansa gave an unladylike snort. "I don't think Prince Doran would give me a castle, and what right do we have to take one?"

Sandor shrugged. "His brother killed my brother."

Sansa's anger boiled up inside her. Where did he come up with ideas like this? Besides, Sandor hated his brother! Sansa threw the rest of her meal on the floor and screamed. "_My castle is not in Dorne!_ My castle is in the north! We are not going south! We are going to _Winterfell_!"

"_All right! _Calm down. You're such a fucking princess."

"I am a Princess," Sansa muttered.

"All right then, _Your Grace_," his voice dripped with sarcasm, "what's the big plan to get us to your castle? Just walk up the Kingsroad?"

Sansa felt herself growing red. That was the plan as far as she had figured it. "Well, why not?"

Now Sandor turned furious. "We'll die, Sansa! That's why! You want to walk past The Twins after what they did to your brother? Those people want to murder you. They'll do you in just like they did him in."

"My brother Robb?" Sansa frowned. Sandor was talking about the Freys, who kept The Twins and had murdered Robb at her uncle's wedding.

"Yeah. 'The King in the North,'" he scoffed. "And you're the Princess. Do you think your title will defend us? It won't. It doesn't matter that your wolf is dead, they'll find a new head for your body. Probably mine."

"What?" Sansa asked. Why was Sandor talking about Lady? "What did they do to Robb?"

"Gods, you really are dense. Didn't I just tell you?"

"He was beheaded?" _Like Lady. Like my father. _

"_No. _The Freys killed him, then they cut off his head. And then they switched it with his bloody wolf's. So whenever you want to let me in on it, I'm ready to hear your brilliant plan to get us north."

_Grey Wind_, Sansa thought, and she started to cry.

"Stop it. You knew the Freys killed your brother."

But Sansa could not stop crying. The image of Grey Wind's head sewn to Robb's body was stuck in her mind. "Oh, Robb. Oh, oh, Robb," she cried, and sobbed anew whenever she said his name.

"I was just being mean," Sandor said several minutes later. "I was just kidding about the wolf bit."

"No, you weren't!" she choked out. "I know when you're being mean and when you're telling the truth!" She slumped to the ground, exhausted from sobbing. She could not remember the last time she felt so angry, lonely, and afraid. She knew then that she had mortal enemies who wanted nothing but for her to die.

"Sansa. I'm sorry."

She felt so weak. She could not go on. She could not even lift herself up from the ground, so she scratched at it, breaking her fingernails in the dirt. Sandor came over and picked her up and held her tight in his arms. She struggled against him but he wouldn't let her go, and held her long after she had no tears left but was still crying.

"Why?" she whimpered. "Why would they do that?"

"I don't know."

"Please, Sandor . . ." She clung to him fiercely, thinking that this was the last safe place for her. "Promise you won't hurt me."

"I won't. And I won't let anyone else hurt you, either."

She thought of all Robb's bannermen who had promised him the same thing, and he'd had many. For her, hopefully one would be enough.

The half-moon rose and somewhere out in the woods a wolf howled-too close, and it echoed off the cliff's walls. Sandor jumped like he'd been startled. Then a whole chorus of wolves joined the first one, so loud they might have been only a mile away from the campsite.

"Are you afraid, girl? Those wolves would like to eat us."

"No," Sansa said, settling against him. "No, they're only singing."


	12. 12: LITTLEFINGER

DISCLAIMER: I don't own ASOIAF series, its characters, the setting or even the best lines in this fic. All credit goes to George R. R. Martin whose work inspired me to write this story.

_I usually update once a week, but since today is my birthday, I am giving a present to _you_, my very lovely readers! Here's chapter 12 on the 12th!_

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CHAPTER 12

LITTLEFINGER

"_Fucking LANNISTERS_!"

A white raven from the citadel had arrived that morning, and now it took flight, startled by Petyr Baelish's outburst. Lothor Brune ducked as the bird dived by his head with an undignified squawk.

Petyr crumpled the letter he was writing in a fist. It seemed that everyone who came into his office today had nothing for him but bad news. First the bird had announced the arrival of winter (like they didn't realize it here at the top of a frozen mountain) and now Brune said that Sandor Clegane had never crossed the Gates of the Moon. Worst of all, Alayne and her horse were missing.

Petyr's mood had been sour since yesterday morning, when Alayne had not even touched the berries he offered her at breakfast. Sometimes he got the impression that she did not appreciate the things he did for her; not arranging her marriage to Ser Harry, and not providing berries during winter. He'd felt like flinging them against the wall; instead, he put a smile on his face and finished his breakfast.

Afterwards, Petyr summoned Lothor Brune. "I have a job for you." Brune was one of the few men Petyr could trust with secret information and silent tasks. He hoped he hadn't waited too long to send him out. "Sandor Clegane left this morning with a new sword and a bag of gold, but I fear he got away with too much of something far more valuable."

The man's square jaw stayed shut. Brune didn't ask questions, but Petyr was used to it, and explained himself anyway.

"_Information_. I'd ask him to return it, but that's just not possible." _How wrong I'd been_. Clegane had gotten away with something more tangible, but Petyr hadn't known that at the time. He'd pressed his lips together in a smile and said, "See that he doesn't leave the Vale with it. The sword and gold are yours."

Brune gave a measured nod and left, sent by Petyr Baelish to kill Sandor Clegane. For the world, it was no big loss. In fact, Petyr felt himself the hand of justice. The Hound loved killing. It was only fitting that his violent past would catch up with him, and Petyr's motives had not been selfish. He had only ordered his death to keep Alayne safe.

The rest of the day was business and farewells, as his guests trickled out of the Eyrie one at a time like drops of water from a mountain fissure. He was not sorry to see them go, but acted towards each as though that man or woman was his greatest ally. It was tiring, really. That night he fell asleep remembering Cat.

In the morning, his thoughts went again to Sansa. He'd only been daydreaming when he said that he would marry her. Maybe he was also hoping for a spark of hope to show in her eyes. He'd had his low birth rubbed in his face often enough to know that it was silly to expect that; still, the future was unwritten. Anything was possible. If the time and opportunity were right, he could confess that there were things he wanted from her that could only properly be had between a husband and a wife.

He would get a chance soon. Once Alayne gave her consent to the marriage she would be examined by a visiting Maester and proven wholesome-and Petyr had the strings to pull even if she wasn't. Since the poor girl could hardly be expected to go through such a humiliating examination without the presence of a trusted guardian, Petyr had every intention of consoling his daughter throughout the process. Then he'd be able to see for himself that piece of her he'd broke open on her mother.

And if the Imp had done his work, then Petyr had in mind a gift for her to take to Ser Harry.

But by the eve of Ser Harry's departure Alayne had still not come out of her room. Everyone had expected her to come down and say her farewells to her fiancé, but she did not. Not even her maid knew where she was.

They tore the castle apart looking for her, and Petyr even had them look outside, fearful that she had thrown herself to her death to avoid being separated from him. But her body was not among the stones, and she could not be found inside. That brat Harry had the gall to insinuate that this was some kind of trick. Petyr held his own tongue with more success, though the same thought had crossed his own mind with Morton and Hardyng as the culprits. After the search party looking outside turned up the body of Ser Harry's squire, accusations flung heavy from both sides.

Yet Petyr had calmed them-but only after he was sure this was not some plot to avoid paying the girl's dowry, or worse, that they had discovered her true identity. The Master of Horse was questioned-and punished, but all he seemed to know was that the girl had gone out riding with the squire. The bulk of the blame seemed to rest on the boy, much to Harry's dismay, but the death and Alayne's kidnapping appeared to be the work of Mountain Men. Even now Sers Harry and Morton were on their way to gather a force and head into the mountains and rescue-or avenge-his lady love.

Now that Brune had returned with the news that Sandor Clegane had never passed the Gates of the Moon, it all fell into place. There were few reasons to leave the Eyrie by any other route. He was sneaking off the Vale with something to hide. Petyr had his suspicions that he had recognized Alayne, and now that they were both gone, it seemed clear that he had kidnapped her. How the squire fit into it exactly Petyr wasn't sure, but somehow Clegane had used him to lure the girl out of the castle. Petyr went along with the Mountain Men story, but the whole situation reeked of Lannister trickery.

He opened up a drawer in his desk and took out the dragon skull. He knew that there were dozens like it in the cellars beneath the Red Keep. How could he have believed that Jorah Mormont sent it to him as proof of the rising power of the Dragon Queen? Clegane had said that Varys was missing from King's Landing, so he had to bring the informer's message to Petyr instead. Now it seemed to Petyr more likely that Clegane had never met Ser Jorah, there were no reborn dragons, and that Varys had whispered the entire plot in Cersei's ear. Then she had sent her dog to sniff out Sansa. Certainly she couldn't have come up with something so clever by herself.

Petyr contemplated the skull, a newfound hatred for it seizing him when he thought of all he had exchanged for this borrowed piece of trash. It hurt him to think that he had handed over the Princess of the North for some false story about a phantom enemy. And what would Cersei, cruel bitch that she was, do once she finally had Sansa, who she blamed for her son's death? Not kill her-she would need her for the kingdom of Winterfell. But harm her. That was certain.

"Tell the servants to get their shit together," he told Lothor Brune. "Pack quickly. We're leaving the Eyrie as soon as possible." They were a few days ahead of schedule, but it made no matter.

"Aye, I'll tell 'em. We make for the Fingers in the morning?"

"Tonight, if we can manage it. And we're not going to the Fingers." To leave the Eyrie for Petyr Baelish's ancestral home had been the plan, but it was not the plan anymore. "We're going to King's Landing."

If he was going to save Sansa, he would need to treat with Cersei.


	13. 13: SANSA

CHAPTER 13

SANSA

In the morning Sansa lay in bed long after she had woken up, her blue eyes staring blankly at the grey sky.

Sandor came to one knee beside her and spoke softly. "Are you ready to get up?"

"Mmm," she frowned at him and turned over.

"We shouldn't stay in any one place for too long."

She could tell he was making an effort to be gentle with her. _He probably feels guilty for telling me about Robb_. Tyrion had spared her that when he brought her the news of her brother's and her mother's deaths, but Sandor was not the type of man to keep things from her. Hearing about Robb's death had been like getting a dose of medicine to remind her that their lives were at stake. The Hound was cruel, but he was honest, stalwart, and resourceful. He was everything she needed. It made her feel weak to think that Sandor found her stronger than she found herself, so she forced herself to get up and get dressed.

She felt him watching her when she pulled herself onto Lady, but he didn't help her up. She could do that on her own, at least. The air was too dry for rain or snow, but Sansa pulled her fox fur hood closer around her face all the same. It would hide her if she started to cry again.

She doubted she would have the energy. She was tired, depressed, and dirty. She had never pushed herself this hard before. Worse, she had never been so long without a bath. Her skin was grimy and her scalp itched. Her clothes were no longer the same color as when she first put them on, and her cloak had a dark stain on the hood and shoulders from the dye running out of her hair. It hadn't rained since they left the open meadow of the Vale, but whenever there was snow or moisture in the air some of the dark brown color washed out and now her hair was the two-toned color of rotting wheat.

She would have given anything for a bath, but there were no inns out here in the woodlands. They followed the river until it became an estuary where birds came to rest, every species' call heard over the rhythm of the sea. Rocks near the mouth of the river kept the fresh water flowing into the pool, and the flow out to the ocean was blocked by a sandbar at low tide. They were hidden by the trees behind them, the beachy hills raised around the pool, and the sun was a flaming orange ball on their right.

This pool was like an answer to her prayers. "Oh, Sandor," she sighed with longing. "Couldn't we stop here?"

"You want to take a bath?"

"Yes!"

"Okay. Hobble the horses, and I'll make a fire."

Sansa was elated that they were going to have a fire. After traveling with Sandor she had the impression he would rather not have one even when they could, so she was glad that he finally offered to make one. She wouldn't be as cold as she would have otherwise once she finished her bath. She hobbled the horses among the leafless trees to graze on whatever shoots and saplings they could find, and Sandor chopped a tree down with his axe. When she came back to the pool the wood was in a pile, but still not burning, and Sandor was taking off his clothes.

"Aren't we going to have a fire?" she asked.

"I'll make it when I get out." He pulled off the tunic he wore beneath his chainmail, exposing the burns and scars on his torso and the hard muscles beneath the skin.

"Oh, okay." She turned away from him, a little embarrassed that she had stood by watching him take off his shirt, and rummaged for the bar of soap at the bottom of her bag. She took this with her to the pool and left her comb and a fresh set of clothes on top of her bag for when she got out.

Sandor was dunking his head in the pool. When he surfaced, he tossed his head back and shook the water droplets from it in a wide arc. Sansa stood by uncertainly, wondering if she should get in with him, but he was already getting out.

Septa Mordane had told her that all men are beautiful, and even though Sansa had always thought of the Hound as ugly, she could see that this was true of him as well. He was muscled like a bull, with a broad chest, thick neck, and strong arms made as firm as the steel they lifted. She wondered if she would even be able to wrap her hands around his biceps. Water dripped off of him, and his sculpted stomach sat hard between the two lines of his hips. A third line, this one of curly hair, pointed with the others like an arrow to the patch between his legs, and beneath that his penis hung limp and wrinkled.

Sansa realized she was staring and brought her eyes up to meet his, and much to her embarrassment saw her gaze had not escaped him. He passed her with a bemused smile on his face, but mercifully without comment.

_Stupid. So stupid_, she berated herself. What would he think of her now that he'd caught her staring at his _penis_? She would rather not think about it. She lifted her dress over her head, peeled off her smallclothes, and got in the water.

It was cold, but Sansa had learned to swim in the moat that surrounded Winterfell so she quickly got used to it. She swam from one end of the pool to the other to warm herself up, and then she came back to the shallow end, her feet seeking the muddy bottom to plant herself. She rubbed the soap over her body to get the grime off. She massaged her scalp and finger-combed her hair, using the soap to clean it. At the Eyrie she'd washed her hair with a dark brick to keep it brown, but now the dye was rinsing out along with the dirt.

Sandor started dinner over the fire, dried off and got dressed without a glance at Sansa, but now that he was done he came over to sit by the pool and sharpen his sword. Sansa crouched on her knees with her chin above the water and eyed him unappreciatively.

"Are you just going to sit there?" she asked once she was done washing herself.

"Mmhmm." His eyes followed the whetstone down the blade, but Sansa wasn't fooled.

"You're going to watch me when I get out!"

He laughed. "It's only fair. You watched me."

_I should have known he would tease me worse than usual when he didn't say anything_. She sank deeper into the water. It was cold, but her face felt hot. She wanted to get out now.

"You could at least bring me something to dry off with," she scolded him. _And cover myself_.

Sandor put his blade down and picked up her wool cloak. "I've got it right here."

"Give it to me."

"Come and get it."

He stared at her meanly. She tried to think of something to do._ Well, I'm not going to just sit here so he can have a laugh at my expense_. It wasn't such a big deal if he saw her naked, she decided. Most of the time they slept together naked or in just their smallclothes, and he'd probably seen most of what she had to hide already anyway. With this new resolve, Sansa used her hands to cover herself as best she could, and rose up out of the water.


	14. 14: SANDOR

DISCLAIMER: George R. R. Martin owns A Song of Ice and Fire. This is a derivative work by an unaffiliated person.

The new picture was painted by Edward Leighton over 100 years ago.

**Warning: Some Mature content in this chapter.**

_Don't get _too_ excited, though . . . _

_& I feel to mention this: Things have to get worse, before they get better._

* * *

CHAPTER 14

SANDOR

After Sandor watched Sansa get out of the pool naked, there was no doubt in his mind that she was a woman.

He had once seen a painting of a goddess rising out of the sea, and that's what she looked like now. One hand lay across her breasts and the other covered the place between her legs, but they could not hide much of the figure she had grown into. Her breasts were as large as melons, her hips strained to match their girth, and the nipples she tried to cover with her arm were as pink as her lips. She brought the sound of rain with her out of the water as it ran over her skin. Her long hair was finally losing its fake, dark brown color, and between her legs he could see the edges of her shock of true red-brown hair.

He tried to keep his face a mask when she approached him, but his mouth twitched. Sansa's face was as impassive as the moon. The droplets coming off of her absorbed into the earth when she stepped onto the bank and left them in an uncomfortable silence. She was careful not to touch him as she took the cloak from his hand. She was so close he could see the goosepimples on her arm when she reached for it, leaving her breasts free and her nipples tightening into rosebuds in the crisp air. She covered herself and moved past him to stand by the fire.

Sandor walked off the beach into the cover of the trees. He'd always thought of Sansa as a little girl, helpless, a flimsy thing., but little girls did not have huge perky tits bouncing around on their chests. Her waist was so tiny he guessed he could get his fingers to touch if he reached his hands around it, but even his large hands wouldn't cover the Little Bird's squashy breasts. Now he saw that she was no longer a child, but a woman, with a woman's body that could make children of her own.

The thought of her flesh spilling out between his fingers caused his cock to jump. He knelt down over a pile of fallen leaves and took it out. Knowing she was bathing had kept him half-hard, but seeing her naked had brought him to full mast. His cock had grown considerably since she had watched him step out of the cold pool, and he wished that she could see it now. It was longer than the span of his hand, and thick, the red head pushing out stiff. He pulled the skin back up around it and rolled the head between his fingers, thinking of her soft body and sweet voice.

Somehow it felt wrong to imagine fucking her, but he couldn't get the image of her rising from the water out of his mind. Whenever he closed his eyes, the picture was there. He pumped into his hand and thought of the droplets running over her body, the ones between her tits he'd like to dry off with his tongue, of her delicate nipples and how he'd like to taste them. _No_. He opened his eyes and a vein in his thick cock was pulsing. He couldn't deny that he wanted to give this to her, to spear her red pussy and shake her small body and hear her sing his name again and again.

"Sansa," he muttered, and came, shooting glob after glob of cum on the innocent pile of leaves he crouched over. There was a lot of it and he gritted his teeth as he pressed the last of it out of him, feeling guilty that he'd succumbed so totally to his desires. Well, not totally, he decided, because even if his thoughts had been impure that wasn't the same as acting on them. If his actions were as impure as his desires, he would have raped her already.

_No_. That was a lie, too. As much as he wanted to fuck her, he didn't really want to rape her. He hated to see her cry, for one thing, and it wouldn't be worth it to hurt her so and break the trust between them. What he wanted was to share himself with her, and for her to want that. It was a feeling Sandor was unaccustomed to, as a man who would need the fingers on both of his hands to count the women he'd fucked, but less than one for those he hadn't paid gold to beforehand-or afterward, as reparation.

Yet he knew that Sansa would not become one of those rare women who stole into his bed of their own accord. She was a princess, as she was fond of reminding him, and would marry a prince or a high lord that could help her secure Winterfell. She wasn't interested in satisfying base desires with a lowly swordsman. The devotion he felt for her was best left unconsummated, expressed as loyalty instead of love. _Do I love her? Is that what this is?_ The very thought made him uncomfortable. He returned to camp somewhat shy of her gaze, but Sansa was not so keen to ignore him.

"Where did you go?"

"Why? Did you miss me?" he sneered, knowing the answer.

"No." Sansa curled her lip back at him. "I . . . I wanted to know if the food was ready."

"It's not, so stop asking questions."

He'd set fish to roast, and actually it was a little overdone. He stabbed his knife into the fire to get out the root vegetables he'd packed at the bottom. They'd found wild onions and carrots in the woodlands, and leeks and mustard seeds near the mouth of the river. Nature's last harvest. He put the latter in fresh after peeling and chopping the cooked fish and vegetables, mixed everything together and gave half of it to Sansa in a bowl. It was peasant fare, to be sure, and he could only imagine how she felt being served it.

Sansa fell upon the food like a hungry wolf. _Because she is_, he realized. He was used to surviving on battle rations when the need called for it, but Sansa had lived pampered all her life. She wasn't prepared for the struggles of running, hiding, and fighting coupled with the rare cooked meal on a journey like this.

"This is really good!" Sansa said, spooning more of the fish mixture into her mouth. "I mean, it's loads better than what we eat when you don't cook."

Sandor winced. "You don't have to rub it in."

"I'm not! Why can't you just take the compliment?" They ate in silence a few moments longer before she spoke up again. "You know, you'll have to get over it as we go farther North and it gets even colder."

He fixed her with an icy stare. "Get over _what_?"

He must have looked angry, because Sansa stammered and cringed. "Making, well, uhm . . . Nothing. I'm sorry, I should not have said that."

"Yeah, you really shouldn't have." He took a deep breath, remembering his promise to himself to be patient with her. "Sansa, I don't want to build fires because of the reason I've been trying to explain to you. Anyone searching for us will be able to find us by the smoke from the fire."

"Oh, I'm not worried about that. I have you here to protect me!"

Sandor's laugh sounded like a bark. "So, the only way you'll have a problem is if I'm dead, right?"

"Yes! Well, no, that's not what I'm trying to say . . .. I just don't know what I would do without you. You're the only person I have to rely on. If you weren't helping me, I wouldn't have a chance to get to Winterfell."

"It's fine. I can't think of anyplace I'd rather be during the middle of Winter than heading North to take a helpless Princess back to her ruined castle."

Sansa's smile fell away and her face reddened. "Oh . . . you're mocking me."

"Well," Sandor stamped out the remains of the fire, "_You _were mocking _me_."

Sansa turned to what was left of her food and pushed it around in the bowl. Sandor looked at the soft gray ash, dead and growing cold under his boot. He couldn't talk to her now. He didn't really feel like talking to her again, ever. _Better to let her go and see how far she gets by herself_, he thought. This was all becoming too much for him to deal with. Just then, a wolf came onto the beach.

"Look out!" It was closer to her, and the biggest wolf Sandor had ever seen. Its thick grey and white fur, ticked with black, bristled to make it look like it was coated in spikes. The wolf was the size of a yearling pony, at least-big enough for a small girl like Sansa to ride. Sandor reached for his sword reflexively and realized he'd left it on the bank near the water.

"Sansa! Get back here!" He took a step forward and the wolf growled, a deeper, more menacing sound than he'd ever heard from any dog. The wolf held its ears forward to show that it was not afraid. Sansa crouched down and crawled towards it.

"What in Seven Hells are you doing!" he yelled at her, and took another step forward. The wolf's tail stuck straight up. His sword was only a few meters away, but he'd never reach it in time if the wolf decided to snap. One bite from those lion-sized jaws would kill her. He didn't dare take another step, but Sansa did. The wolf stared into her eyes and cocked its head.

Sandor fell to his knees. He would have prayed then if he thought it would help. Sansa came to within a foot of the wolf. The seconds passed like hours, Sandor sure with each one that the wolf was about to bite her head off. Finally, it sniffed the air and turned back to the woods from whence it came. Just before it bounded into the woods it looked over its shoulder at them, and then it disappeared.

Sansa stood up like nothing strange had happened. "I think she wants us to follow her," she said.

"What the fuck! A wolf almost attacks you and you want to go chasing after it? If I didn't already know how fucking stupid you are-"

"She didn't attack me," Sansa interrupted, frowning at him.

"_She_? Listen to yourself!"

"Don't argue with me! Get the horses. We're leaving."

_Crazy wolf bitch_. Like her sister, he thought, but he didn't dare say it. He got Stranger and led him after Sansa and her horse. They went through the woods the way the wolf had gone. The horses were nervous from the wolf smell, but they urged them forward, even though there wasn't any trail.

"There she is!" Sansa said, pointing through the trees. The wolf was crossing the Kingsroad. Sansa crashed through the bushes trying to catch up, pulling a reluctant Lady along behind her.

"Sansa, wait!" He didn't look to see if anyone else was on the road-he didn't have time. He saw the flank of Sansa's horse backtrack south and parallel to the road. _South, why_? And he caught her, panting. When he went to scold her she put a finger to his lips.

"Listen," she whispered. He heard someone coming up the road. Not one horse, but several, galloping, and one man yelling to another. They were well hidden in the brush, but through it Sandor could make out the movement of four figures, one with splashes of red and gold on his armor.

"We found the camp, Ser!"

"Did you find Sansa Lannister?"

"Does it look like it?" answered a gruffer voice than the first. "If I did, I'd have her fist wrapped around my cock by now."

"Whoever it was, they left already. We can't be sure it was their camp, anyway."

"Of course it was them!" Sandor recognized this man's voice. It was Lothor Brune. "Who else would be coming off the mountains of the Eyrie? I want them found!"

"There's a trail from here to the beach, but we didn't see signs of anyone."

"We'll ride up the the road and search alongside it. Whoever it was, they can't have gone far."

The four horsemen galloped past, too swift for Sandor to make out any details through the cover of the trees. He didn't have to. He had heard enough to know that Baelish and the Lannisters had sent men after them who were hot on their trail. If they hadn't left camp when they did, they would have been caught.

Sansa grabbed his hand. "Come on," she whispered, and led him deeper into the woods.


	15. 15: ARYA

_I know I said you could skip the first Arya chapter, but this one has a little SanSan so maybe you will read it? All the subplots are important, I promise!_

_Please let me know what you think of the story by leaving a review!  
_

DISCLAIMER: I don't own ASOIAF, I just love it.

* * *

CHAPTER 15

ARYA

Arya never told anyone what happened to her in the desert temple, and no one ever asked. Sometimes she had nightmares about the girl, but that was only when she forgot to say her prayers. Most of the time her prayers were what she used to fall right asleep. Best of all, the wolf dreams were stronger than ever. More often her roommate, a soft girl with milk-white skin and dark eyes and hair, would shake her awake in the middle of the night. "You were _growling_," she explained when Arya protested.

Arya was eager to begin her senior training. Her duties became more serious as she was given more responsibilities. Arya helped her Lyseni swordmaster coach the younger students for an hour a day, and instead of one day of service a month at temple she put in three. But what Arya was really looking forward to was the class restricted to those students who had passed the desert test-the lessons she would need to learn to become one of the Faceless Men.

They met in a basement classroom. What light there was came from the candles on their desks and jars of the pickled pieces of things lined the shelves behind their teacher's table. Gogo was there, along with Arya's roommate, Mym, and half a dozen other students Arya didn't care for. Their teacher was a sour man with a hunched back, who barged into the room twenty minutes late on the first day.

Arya was disappointed that he was not Jaqen. "Everyone is here," he said, oggling his students with a misshapen eye. He walked up to Gogo, who could barely contain his excitement to start learning even with the long wait they'd endured.

"_You_. You look like you'd say that's a good thing. Would you say that's a good thing?"

"Yes," Gogo agreed.

"WELL IT'S NOT!" He slammed a palm down on the table and the candle wobbled in its stand. Gogo jumped.

"_Who are you_!"

"No one!" Gogo responded, the way they'd all been taught to.

"Then why are you _here_?"

"Uh!"

"If _all of you _are _no one _then why is _everyone _HERE!"

All of the students shrank into their chairs, trying their best to look like they weren't sitting in them. Their teacher's voice lowered to a menacing grumble.

"By the time I'm done with you, you will be able to melt into the shadows, impersonate kings, even fool parents into thinking you are their trueborn children. You will finally discard those meaningless identities you hold so precious. Only when you are _no one _can you become _anyone_. You there. Open the cabinet behind you, and get out the books."

_Books?_ Arya frowned, but their teacher explained that only with theoretical knowledge would they be able to master the practical art of face-changing.

Gogo caught up with Arya and Mym when they were heading up the stairs. "I don't get what he was yelling at me about. Are we not supposed to come to class?"

Arya rolled her eyes, but Mym thought that was funny and laughed.

As it turned out, the class that was supposed to teach them how to change the shape of their face was easily the most boring one they had to sit through. They spent long hours pouring over dusty textbooks that were so old the faded writing looked like it had been penciled in a hundred years ago. Arya thought that was a stupid. She knew for a fact that half the students in the room couldn't read.

Every day their teacher would begin each lesson with "Today I am going to teach you the secret of becoming a Faceless Man," and every day they proceeded to open the big, ugly, musty, stupid textbook.

Arya propped her book up and rested her chin on the table. Inside were illustrations of human musculature and anatomy, faces with the skin peeled off. Her teacher was droning on and on. She still had skin on her eyelids, and it felt heavy. She smiled to herself. She didn't really need to listen, she already knew how to change her shape. She could become a wolf-in her dreams.

And suddenly she was. She was running through the forest with her nose to the ground. There were so many scents-rabbit, birch, wind, sap, reed, muskrat, mulch, stone. She caught a whiff of smoke and cooked meat. And there were other smells-horse, danger, iron, man. There were four of them, close, hunting. And there was another smell, something familiar. She lifted her head to the wind and pricked up her ears.

_Sister! _She bounded through the woods. She'd forgotten that her sister was dead, and almost died then herself. Only her ears saved her from the armored knights tramping noisily up the road.

She stopped, and remembered. Her sister was dead. She had smelt her blood hot on the wind when she ran from her man-family, and knew the truth of it when her howls for her were answered with silence. She could feel the loss even now.

But was she really dead? She could smell her strong and clear. _Sister_. She went cautiously, a shadow in the trees. She went over the hill as straight as a crow flies while the men took the flat path over and around and back. When she got to the top the smell of the ocean hit her in a blast.

And there she was! Her sister was resting on the bank where the river-water met the salt. She sniffed a few more times to be sure. But it wasn't her sister, it was a human girl.

_It is, _Arya thought. _It is Sansa._

She stepped out to meet her. They looked into each other's eyes. Her sister must be in the body of the girl, she decided. No human would dare approach her.

The men were coming closer. She could smell them. There was one on the beach already. She lifted her tail at him and growled when he challenged her. He backed off. He was not important, but more were coming. She could smell them and their horses and their long steel teeth. She tried to tell her sister. Wolves had to run from men, there was no shame in it.

_This way! Run! Hurry! This way!_

She bounded into the trees.

"ARYA!" A ruler slammed down on the table and Arya jumped awake. The entire class was staring, and her gouty teacher was glaring down on her.

"Arya. I am so glad _you _could join _us_. Would you mind summarizing the main points of this lesson?"

"Uhhm." She'd been having a wolf-dream and in it was her sister and Sandor Clegane. Arya had barely thought about the Hound since she'd left him to die on the Trident. _He's dead_, she thought, _and Sansa wouldn't be with him anyway. He'd like that if she were, though, _Arya sneered.

"Well? You can start by changing the look on your face. Did you hear anything I said during this lesson?"

Arya stared at the pages of the book in front of her. There was a diagram of a man with the skin peeled back from his face. _That's why I thought of him. He wouldn't be with Sansa_, she told herself. _It was just a dream_. She had never dreamed of Sansa, either, but that didn't seem so strange to her. That was her sister. As much as they used to fight, she missed her.

Since she could not answer him, her teacher punished her, and later Gogo teased her while Mym laughed. "Geez, Arya, did you not get enough sleep last night?" She sneered at them, too, and didn't say anything to her roommate before climbing into bed.

The dreams came to her again that night. She sniffed out a path to the north away from the smells of men and roads, but there were other dangers here. She battled a bobcat and leapt clear from the jaws of a giant lizard. Over the next week she took naps, which was not her habit, only because her body seemed to need to dream at odd hours. The wolf in her was strong and urgent.

Sansa and the Hound were never far. She could find them anytime by smell; if she had ranged far to scout for danger, the smell of their horses was never faint. Today she found them with her ears.

"The bugs in this swamp are eating me alive! Whenever we have a warm enough day, it's ruined by their appearance."

"You could put mud on the bites."

"Will that help?"

"Aye. You can help cover mine, too. Those bloody fuckers are chewing me up."

She could still smell them, but they covered themselves in the smell of the swamp. That was good. Few predators besides herself could sniff them out if they had to hide.

"Isn't it dirty?"

"It sucks out the poison, and stops the itch. Cover the exposed parts of your skin, and they won't bite you there. Here-"

"Mph! My face, Sandor! I'm going to do that to you."

"Haha! Do it."

". . . There."

"Hold on, you've got two more bites on your chest."

"Those aren't bites!"

Nymeria couldn't understand the words, but Arya did. She crashed through the trees, and bared her teeth at the man who  
went with her sister.

"ARYA!" Her desk shook. Arya glared about the room, bleary-eyed. "That's the third time this week!" her teacher shouted at her. "You stupid, lazy girl! You will never change! You will never become a Faceless Man! I can't teach you anything!"

"You're _not _teaching us anything!" she shouted back. "This is boring! All you ever do is lecture from these stupid books, and Gogo can't even read!"

Gogo turned bright red. Arya knew she had done wrong-she should have held her tongue, or lied the way they taught her to. For talking back to her teacher she received a suspension, the worst possible punishment. When she asked Mym to catch her up on what she missed, the girl stammered and said, "It's kind of hard to explain." When Arya was allowed to return to class, her teacher sat her in a dark corner at the back of the room, "So I won't have to watch you sleep." Her other classes and duties went well, but she had begun to believe her teacher's words, and was no closer to changing the shape of her face than before she knew it was possible. Her only solace was in dreams.


	16. 16: SANDOR

CHAPTER 16

SANDOR

"Sandor! Come quickly!" Sansa ran to him and placed her hands on his forearm, as though she could pull him along if he did not heed her. "Stranger is attacking Lady Fair!"

He dropped the bedroll he was tying and hurried with her to the edge of the glade where they'd hobbled the horses. The land was turning into an uninhabitable, murky swamp and they had to camp on high ground to avoid getting wet, but they left the horses wherever they found the best grass. Sandor had Sansa brush and saddle them in the mornings. There was a little bit of a slope leading down to the glade and Sansa had dropped the horse blankets there on the ground. Sure enough, Lady Fair set a restless place around the clearing and blood trickled in red ribbons from bite marks on her shoulder and neck. Whenever her course took her by Stranger the war horse lunged at her with his front feet out kicking. He tried to herd her closer to him and Lady Fair tried to dash away. Both of them nearly tripped from the leathers that kept their front legs tied together. Lady made due with a brisk trot to the other end of the glade, but neither horse could move very fast.

"He's been chasing her around all morning. He's even tried to stomp on her-I saw it." Sansa said, indignant.

"Maybe you should cut her free. Give Lady a fair chance," Sandor chuckled. _And I'll cut Stranger loose, to give him one_.

"Maybe I should," Sansa frowned, "but I'm worried she'll run off! And she's wounded."

"She won't run off."

"She might, just to get away from your horse! She needs to be bandaged, but I can't get close to her with that mad horse haranguing her. Look at him, Sandor! He's wild."

Lady Fair had pranced back and forth across the glade in front of Stranger a half dozen times already, and now he bucked and kicked in frustration like some black haired demon. Lady turned away from him, swished her tail and ran. Stranger caught a burst of speed and bit her on the flank.

"Sandor, please! Do something!"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Make him stop!"

Sandor shook his head. "I could tie him up, but he won't stop. Not for a couple of weeks, at least." He'd been expecting this, ever since he'd noticed Lady Fair's bleeding a few days ago. He noticed Sansa's, too, as she slept bundled in her pants and woke up at all hours of the night to make water, though she took pains to hide from him what was obvious. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, "We might have trouble riding…"

"You mean he'll act like this when I'm on her?" Sansa looked worried.

Sandor shrugged. "He might. We could just tie her up, and get this over with."

"_Lady _is not the one who needs to be tied up."

"This wouldn't be as much of a problem if we had a stable," he agreed.

Sansa looked at him quizzically. "Obviously," she said.

"I say we untie both of them. It's the easiest way."

"Are you sure it's safe? He'll rip her to pieces!"

Sandor had to laugh at that.

"You don't think so?"

"No."

"Well …" Sansa frowned at the horses and Sandor took some mint out of his bag to chew. The animals seemed winded from their earlier displays and had set to grazing, Lady always with her back to Stranger. When he got too close she picked her head up and trotted away, and he swung around and grazed whichever towards her.

"He's pestering her," Sansa whined.

"She's teasing him, more like. Come on. Let's cut them loose." He started down towards the horses and Sansa followed with choppy steps. She ran to her palfrey. As he approached Stranger the horse laid his ears flat against his head. Sandor held the stem of mint out to tempt him, but the big war horse just snorted and tossed his head. "You'll wish you took it when she complains about your breath after, you lucky sonofabitch," he said, and came up alongside his horse, reaching down to unstrap the stallion's legs. Once unhooked Sandor took a step back and the big horse took off like a thundercloud. Sansa picked up her skirts and ran as the stallion came charging down on her and the mare, who cantered off in the opposite direction. Sansa pumped up the slope in stride with Sandor and he saw her ankles were dotted with mud.

"I hope you know what you're doing." She was still frowning as the horses races around the yard freely, neighing and whickering. Sandor set one of their blankets on the wet grass and leaned back on it. Stranger was behaving himself a mite better; even Sansa was distracted by his prancing and took a moment before plopping herself down as well. Sandor noticed her hesitation before she settled next to him on the small space on the blanket.

"Why are we sitting down?"

"What's the matter, you're too polite to watch?" He liked the way Sansa felt next to him, but she questioned him too often, like a child. But he knew she was a woman, and like all women, she talked too much. _Why can't she just enjoy it? _And the question made him self-aware that probably she didn't enjoy it, not as much or in the same way that he did, and he was pulled in one direction by that thought and in another by the soft warm body at his side.

"Watch what?" she asked, missing his sneer.

He held his tongue to keep from calling her naive and she followed his eyes back to the horses. Stranger was licking the blood off Lady Fair's neck and sporting a pink erection.

"I don't want to see that!" She reached her far hand over to grab his arm and looked up at him, aghast. He had to laugh at her expression and how right he was about her.

"Did you really not know?"

"I guess not . . ." She turned her head, but kept her hand on him. He had no objection to her touching him and it kept her breasts pressed against him nicely. Lady flicked her tail to the side and Stranger moved to stick his nose beneath it. "But if he likes her why was he so mean to her?"

"Just frustrated he couldn't get at her, I guess." He didn't look at Sansa when he said it. He told himself it was so his eyes wouldn't wander down to her squashed breasts, but he chanced his glance when curiosity turned her focus back to the horses.

"He's going to crush her," Sansa worried, clutching him tighter. The destrier brought his head down and rubbed his chin over her palfrey's flank. He was a few hands taller than she was, but it wasn't a problematic difference. Stranger made a little jump and mounted her.

"He's hurting her again!" Sansa whined and dug her nails into his arm. Stranger had reached forward and bit Lady Fair firmly on the back of her neck to hold her. The mare screamed and tossed her head, but the stallion had his legs planted firmly and she couldn't dash away.

Even Sandor had to admit that the stallion tearing into the mare's neck while thrusting into her from behind was a bit violent. "Ehh . . . when he bites, he bites hard."

Sansa did not relax her grip as she watched in wide-eyed fascination as their horses mated. Lady stood by looking relaxed even as the big destrier pummelled her. They were opposing sides of the same act; one active, one passive; one dark, one light. Then Stranger's flank twitched like he had a fly on him, he stopped and jumped off Lady. He walked around to the front of her and they touched noses.

"How sweet!" Sansa giggled. "They're kissing!" Her grip relaxed, but her hand stayed its place as she pressed closer and looked up at him with a radiant smile. Sandor gave her a lopsided one, thinking that they were not, but it was a romantic notion to say so. He thought he understood her better then. He wanted to kiss her. She must have noticed some change in his expression, because the color rushed to her cheeks and she jumped up. She paused just long enough to put her slippers on and ran back through the trees towards the camp.

He let her go without a word, but wondered what had made the Little Bird take flight. Well, they were done watching the horses fuck, so what reason was there to stay? He could think of one or two. Sandor put the blanket back by the saddles and felt a passing regret that he couldn't have lead the simple life of an animal instead of being born a man and having black and white mixed up inside of him.


	17. 17: SANSA

_I'm going to try to post two chapters a week because I realized there is no way I am going to finish the story by the time frame I have set for myself if I don't. Writing these chapters felt like I was slogging through the mud along with Sandor and Sansa! Hopefully things will go smoother from here for all of us._

* * *

CHAPTER 17

SANSA

Sansa busied herself around the camp. The pot of water on the cooking fire was boiling so she stirred grain into it for their breakfast, found apples in the food sack and cut them into wedges. She set the stems and cores aside to give to the horses. She was trying to distract herself from her feelings, without much success.

She had been curious, but watching the horses had left her with a tingling feeling. _Or maybe it was from sitting next to Sandor_. She pushed the thought from her mind. She sat next to him all the time. She must have seen dogs or horses mating when she was growing up in Winterfell, but she couldn't remember. Certainly she had not paid as much attention as she did this morning. It seemed to her the strangest thing, but to the animals it seemed natural. Enjoyable, even. She wondered why they didn't do it more often, but knew it had something to do with it being Lady's time. She didn't really understand it. The only part she thought she knew about was the romantic stuff, like kissing, and Sandor had _laughed _at her. Of course they weren't _kissing_, horses didn't kiss.

But people did, and looking at him . . . It didn't make any sense. Sandor was looking out for her, but she didn't owe him anything. Why should she feel this way? She shook her head, but the feelings were still there, and the knowledge that right then, she'd wanted to kiss him.

It wasn't the first time she'd felt something like this. Sometimes she was struck by a deep affection for him. When he looked sad or vulnerable, she thought she saw a need there for gentleness. Twice she had surprised herself by hugging him. But the Hound was a hard man and stiffened from her touch. Other times it was his strength that drew her. She felt safe with him. But instead of saying this or staying close, she felt cowed and forced a distance between them. How could she explain that the same feeling that made her want to get close to him made her pull away?

But this was the first time her feelings had been so plain and clear. This was the first time the feelings in her heart had wanted to express themselves in such a romantic way. Usually she kept them locked inside of herself, and mixed as the swamp water Sandor said they couldn't drink. There, they were conscious thoughts that she could reason with. Now that she had allowed herself to feel a pure emotion, she was startled by what she felt.

Sandor walked back into camp and, seeing her by the fire, walked over and spooned some porridge into a bowl for himself. Inwardly, Sansa cursed herself for running away and acting so shy. It wasn't as though he could read her mind. She gave him most of the apples and put the rest into her own bowl.

"I see we're eating like horses, at least" he said, and his gruff comment made her blush, though she couldn't say why. She stared down at her oats and apples, hoping he wouldn't notice. She wondered that she could feel so awkward sitting across from him, when a moment ago she'd been so comfortable pressed to his side.

When they were done eating Sansa cleaned their bowls, filled one with water and found a rag and bandage in their supplies. "I'm going to patch up Lady," she said, and hurried off. It was challenging even to speak to him, but Sansa didn't think that would be a problem since he didn't usually talk much anyway.

She darted through the trees, which poked through the ground like the fingers of giant skeletons, to the clearing where they'd left the horses. They spent most of the day knee-deep in the swamp but always camped on the highest ground they could find. Lady and Stranger were picking at red buds that looked like fingernails at the ends of the tree branches. Lady turned her big chestnut eyes to Sansa, who wet the rag and used it to scrub the stains from Lady's coat. Her horse still had bite marks, but the bleeding had long since stopped. Working with her hands put Sansa in the mood to sing, and she started up:

_"My lady is the world's most fair,_  
_The sun's the color of her hair,_  
_The moon is jealous of her breasts,_  
_The stars envy like all the rest,_  
_Carnations bloom pallid in hue,_  
_No woman's beauty is as true._  
_When she requests to see the best_  
_The whole world has to offer,_  
_I needn't journey for that quest_  
_And just bring her a mirror."_

It was a silly song and she laughed when she was finished. Lady caught the scent of apple bits in her pocket and nuzzled her. Sansa fed them to her and pet her horse's velvety nose. Even Stranger stepped forward to watch the happy scene and Sansa tossed him an apple core; he sought it in the grass by his feet.

Both horses raised their heads, alerting Sansa to Sandor coming from the high ground with bags of grain for their breakfast. He dropped one for Lady and called Stranger to him, holding the bag for the big black war horse to drop his head into it. Sansa noticed he often fed him like that. She chanced to ask Sandor a question that was nipping at her mind.

"Is Lady pregnant now?"

"Might be, might be not. It doesn't happen every time."

"Oh, so they're like people then." She hoped her saying that would show him that she wasn't so naive, but he just twitched-not only the burned side of his face like when he was angry, but his whole head and shoulders, too, like he was in pain. He was so hard to read. "Then might they, uhm, try to do it again?" She hoped her question would draw him out and give her some hint as to why she upset him.

"I don't know." He pulled Stranger's head up from the oats and held him by the chin. The black horse bared his teeth. "What do you think, Stranger? You want to fuck the Lady Fair again?"

Sansa frowned and put the body of her horse between them. That was in poor taste, she thought, and started braiding Lady's tail. She was sorry as soon as she started. Her horse's vulva was red and pouty, like the cleft of a peach made out of steaks.

"Are you ready yet?"

She waited until she was done tying up the end of her horse's tail to answer him. "Yes," she said, and they were off.

It wasn't long before they spotted the wolf. She waited for them every day. Sometimes they only glimpsed her, but other times she led them step by step around quicksand and treacherous bogs where dormant lizard lions slept.

If Sandor thought she was crazy for following a wolf through the swamp, he didn't say so. She was glad he didn't. She couldn't explain why, but she trusted the wolf's direction completely. Once she was certain they were going in a circle, and she could tell from Sandor's demeanor that he knew they were, too. It was only the next day that they came across the remains of a small host and knew that the wolf had led them well out of the way of a battle.

The land was becoming wetter, if that was possible. They usually stayed on dry ground, but there wasn't much of that anymore. The horses were up to their knees in muck and instead of the wet sucking sounds their hooves made when they pulled them out of the shallow ground the swamp belched and farted every time the horses pushed a pocket of air out of the mud with their legs. The wolf, no longer any color but brown, shook herself off and trotted up a steep hill in front of them.

"Gods, I feel like we are never going to get out of this swamp," Sandor complained. The horses waded in up to their bellies before fighting to free themselves and catch a hold on the slippery hill. Sandor and Sansa got off of them to make it easier and pulled them up, slipping many times themselves. "I think we followed that wolf straight into Hell."

"Sandor..." Sansa panted near the top.

"Sorry. You're a wolf, Little Bird, ask your friend how much longer we're going to be stuck in here."

"Sandor, look!"

From the top of the hill they could look down and see a river at the bottom of the other side. It wasn't a swampy puddle, but a real river running brown with mud. On the other side was a plain, mostly treeless, with rolling hills that reminded Sansa of loaves of uncooked bread laid out to rise on a flour-covered countertop. On top of the biggest mound, and closest to them, was a town.

Sansa could scarce believe her eyes. Sandor yelled. "FUCK YEAH! We made it!"

"We did?" Sansa could not contain her excitement, looking from Sandor to the town and back again, while the tired horses drooped their heads in exhaustion. "Where are we?"

"That's Barrowton, Sansa. This is the north!"

Sansa shrieked with happiness, bounced up and down, and threw herself into Sandor's arms. She wanted to kiss him. He spun her around once and was about to set her down again. Just do it, she told herself, he won't mind.

She did.

They kissed and it felt so good to Sansa. It made her hungry in a way she hadn't known she was. Sandor crushed her to him and she kept her arms around his neck to keep him he opened his mouth wider and stuck his tongue in her mouth she met it with hers.

Sandor stopped kissing her. "You don't have to do that," he said.

"Do what?" Sansa could feel herself turning red from the rebuke. "I wanted to kiss you . . ."

"Yeah?" He turned from her, shyly, and in this posture Sansa could see a reflection of the boy he had once been.

"Yeah," she smiled. "I like kissing you."

When they crossed the river they got so dirty and covered in mud she doubted that even someone who knew them would even recognize them. After that it took three more days to reach Barrowton, and each night Sansa asked him for another kiss. It felt so good each time that her heart felt like a drum beating in her chest when he so much as leaned in close to her. And when she put her arms around his neck and felt the muscles in his back and shoulders and he ran his hands over her body as they touched their tongues together, that felt best of all.


	18. 18: BRIENNE

_Whoo, new POV chapter! Thank you for the R&R love, everyone._

DISCLAIMER: All elements of ASOIAF belong to George R. R. Martin.

* * *

CHAPTER 18

BRIENNE

Brienne and Pod took the Kingsroad north out of Fairmarket, their last stop in the Riverlands. The air was crisp from an inch of freshly fallen snow, melting in the noon sun beneath their horses' feet.

"Do you think we'll find the Lady Sansa in the Vale?" Pod asked her, "Or should we look farther north, near The Twins?"

"I do not think Lady Sansa will be at The Twins." They had searched the Riverlands twice over, stopped at every port, and were no closer to finding Sansa than when Brienne had first set out. Pod still considered her whereabouts in a critically minded fashion: if she was not here she could be there, if she was not there she could be there or there or there. Process of elimination would lead them to the Princess of the North, to hear him tell it, but Brienne often wondered whether they had stopped expecting to find her long ago and if going over the possibilities was not some way of telling themselves that their quest was not doomed.

Ahead of them at the top of a little hill, with the woodlands on their left and the tall peaks of the Vale on their right, sat two men eating lunch. When Brienne and Pod rode up near them, the two men invited them to break bread together as fellow travelers.

One man was old, with graying hair and wrinkles around the eyes, but he looked strong and even wise. Brienne thought his features made him look highborn, and it was not impossible that he was; crueler turns of fate than that had been happened to people during this war. The other man was young and lanky, with freckles and red hair.

"Thank you, Sers." Brienne removed her helm and sat down to enjoy the black bread, garlic, and cheese, taking a link of sausage out of her own bag to add to the food in front of her. Pod tied their horses off the road and Brienne was glad the men did not demand the explanation she usually had to give when her blonde hair tumbled free and she revealed that she was a woman. "I'm Brienne of Tarth, and this is Pod."

"Your squire?" the older man asked.

"Of sorts."

Pod came back to sit next to her, and the older man introduced the one next to him. "This is Anguy, best archer in the Seven Kingdoms."

"You'll pardon me if I've heard the boast before."

"But I really am, milady! I won a contest in King's Landing before the war, won me one thousand dragons I did."

"And spent it on whores, you poxy bastard," the old man laughed and patted his friend on the back. "And me, my name is-"

"I know you!" Pod blurted out. "You're Brynden Tully!"

The archer looked at his companion, Brienne's head snapped at the movement, and the man called the Blackfish put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"The boy meant no trouble," Brienne insisted, hurrying to get her words out before he drew his sword. "We have no quarrel with you."

"Not you personally."

"No, and as far as we know, the Blackfish holds Riverrun. This will be as though we never met."

That seemed to relax him somewhat. "Or he did! Until the Kingslayer took it out from under him."

"I hadn't heard." Brienne didn't want to believe it. Jaime had taken an oath not to take up arms against the Tullys; how had he taken Riverrun?

"Then you haven't heard how he swam away from them like a fish," Angy smiled.

"Or how much they'll pay you for catching him," the Blackfish eyes them coldly again.

Pod held up his hands. Had steel been drawn, he would have been dead before he realized the other man had drawn his sword, Brienne knew. He still had a lot to learn. "We aren't bounty hunters."

"No," Brynden Tully looked over Brienne and Pod, "but you're looking for someone."

She would not deny it. "Aye."

"Who?"

"The Lady Sansa Stark." Just saying it left her exhausted. She had been looking for Sansa since before winter started.

"Sansa Stark, eh?" Brynden rubbed his grizzled beard in his hand. "They say Princess of the North is at Barrowton, but you didn't hear it from me. If the Boltons got wind that she was there they'd sack the town looking for her. Chances would be she'd have left already, but they wouldn't care. Just look at what they did to Torrhen's Square."

Brienne did not know what the Boltons had done to Torrhen's Square, and she did not ask. She did not want to know. She'd heard enough of war and sieges now that she had the news that Jaime had taken Riverrun; straight from the Blackfish himself.

"Barrowton!" Pod exclaimed. "That's not too far from here, is it?"

The rumor did not give Brienne the hope it should have. "Just above the Neck, aye." She was in no hurry to go north for the winter, and how could they know if Sansa was even there?

"Aye, and those of us loyal to the North had best keep our mouths shut, and our ears closed to rumors," the Blackfish went on. "You might think it's alright to hear them if you don't repeat them, but the only way to be sure of that is if you forget what you heard right after you hear it. So best not hear it at all."

"I heard she was kidnapped by the Hound."

"We've all heard that rumor."

After that the only sound was of their eating. The archer kept an eye on the hilt of Brienne's sword. _Let him look_, she thought. It wasn't as if she was going to whip out her blade and attack them.

"You aren't in league with the Lannisters, are you?" Anguy asked.

"No," she said, but it hurt her heart to say it.

"Where'd you get that sword?"

Brienne hesitated. Mentioning Jaime to these men might be as good as a death sentence. "This sword was given to me to fulfill an oath."

The men exchanged a look. "What oath? By whom?"

"The Lady Catelyn Stark sent me to find her daughter Sansa and keep her safe."

"Catelyn is dead." The Blackfish was Lady Stark's uncle. His voice was flat.

"I know."

"So why are you still looking for Sansa?"

"I swore an oath."

"Not to bring Queen Cersei her head, is it?"

"I'm shocked you would accuse me."

"We meant no offense, milady," Anguy cut in. "It's just that I know that sword. It's one of two made from the Stark sword Ice, melted down and reforged into that and Widow's Wail. If you really mean to keep that oath with it, it's blessed. If not, you can be sure of a curse upon you. The Starks keep their ghosts trapped in those blades."

The Blackfish agreed. "If what you say is true, you'll be taking that sword back to its rightful owner. Sansa is the last surviving member of House Stark. By rights, that sword is hers. But that doesn't explain where you got it. It was made by Lannisters. Who gave it to you?"

"Jaime Lannister," Brienne said, and the whole story came pouring out of her. How Catelyn had freed the Kingslayer and sent them away from Robb's host, the meeting with Vargo Hoat when Jaime lost his hand, arriving in King's Landing, and all the rest of her quest, hopeless and lonely except for the day she met Pod.

When she was done, the Blackfish grunted. "So the Kingslayer sends a woman to finish his job, and breaks his oath against the Tullys first chance he gets. Somehow I'm not surprised." Brienne frowned deeply. "I mean no offense, my Lady, but these are dangerous times to be traveling the roads, especially for a woman. War has ravaged the kingdom. I myself am an outlaw, while the Mountain rides free."

"I had heard the Mountain was dead," Pod said.

"So they say. Others say otherwise. Either way, if I found the Lady Sansa, I would not trust the Lannisters enough to put her in their hands. The Kingslayer should be beside you, my Lady, or at least send a company for you to ride with."

_I know_, Brienne thought, _I wish he were_.

"You may have spoke too soon, Brynden," said Anguy. "Here they come up the road."

Sure enough there were four horsemen about a quarter of a mile off. They flew no standard, but Brienne thought it plain that they were King's men. Few riders had the confidence to travel so boldly up the Kingsroad, and each of these four wore a full set of plate armor and rode a fine horse.

"You'll have to excuse us." The Blackfish nodded to her and Pod in turn, then he and the archer disappeared into the brush.

Brienne grabbed Pod by the arm. "Follow them."

"My Lady?" Pod looked at her to the bushes and back again. "Are you sure?"

"Go! That man is Sansa's uncle; we may have need of him later."

"But how will we-"

"We'll find each other. After this, I'm going to Barrowton. Find out where they're headed!"

Pod disappeared into the bushes with considerably more noise than the other men had, and she could hear him crunching through the dead plants long after she lost sight of him. _Gods be with him_.

Brienne picked up the camp so it looked like only she herself had been eating there, and waited for the men. As they got closer, she could make out some of the details in their armor. One kept his armor pristine, but the paint on his shield looked to be scratched off. Another looked menacing in silver and black. The remaining two wore the same issue of armor, though one she guessed to be a squire for the other. Both had red and gold trim.

When they got to her place at the side of the road they came to a halt. "Are you Brienne of Tarth?" the red and gold knight asked.

"I am," Brienne answered, wondering how they knew her.

"Well met, my Lady. I am Ser Lucion Lannister, cousin to Ser Jaime." He motioned to the smaller man next to him. "My squire, Walder. This is Ser Lothor Brune-" the knight with the scratched-off paint nodded to her. She saw that it used to be green. "-and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Ser Jaime has sent us to help you on your quest."

"Oh!" Brienne got to her feet. She found herself wishing that Jaime had come himself, but it was also nice to know that he had not forgotten about her after all this time. "You came from Riverrun?"

"From King's Landing. Ser Jaime rides north, to take Moat Cailin from the Ironborn. We were told to help you find the Lady Sansa if we ran into you."

"I've been looking for her for a long time."

"We have been searching for the girl as well, but we really have no idea where she is. Brune here is the only one who knows what she looks like."

Brienne turned to him. "Then you know something I don't, Ser."

"I'm Bronn. That one's Brune." He pointed.

"Uh, my apologies." _Bronn and Brune. That's almost funny._ They seemed no more than lackeys, but she wondered if she could trust these men. "Are you sworn to protect her?"

"Much as yourself, yes. By the order of King Tommen we're to deliver her to safety."

_If Jaime sent these men, I can trust them_, she decided. Sansa would be safer with her and this guard than she was prowling the countryside. "I haven't found the Lady Sansa yet," Brienne acknowledged, "I've searched the Riverlands without luck, but I heard a rumor that she is at Barrowton. I mean to check there next."

"Then we ride for Barrowton."

Brienne saddled up her horse and set out up the Kingsroad, her party four more strong. Jaime had not forgotten her, and things were finally looking up. She hoped Pod was faring well. If the Blackfish's lead proved true, she would find Sansa within a fortnight. After that all there would be to do would be to deliver her safely to the nearest castle, and Brienne's quest would finally be completed. And if they brought Sansa to Moat Cailin, Jaime would be there!


	19. 19: SANSA

_I'm not doing so well on getting out two chapters a week x_x I have a friends helping me edit so I am still trying to pick up the pace. Thank you very much for reading! Your comments are always appreciated._

**Warning: Mature content. **I dont like to spoil and I dont plan to warn you in the future, but (SPOILER) this is possibly triggering.

_**NOTE (Once you have read the chapter)**: The amount of reviews this chapter got was unprecedented, and though I enjoyed reading the discussions I feel I have to respond to some of the comments: It was NOT my intention for Sandor to rape Sansa. He would never do that and that has already been established (explicitly in Ch14.) I'm not excusing his actions, but he is drunk, thought they might have sex, expected her to be coy, and thinks that her reluctance comes from her negative past experiences, not his present actions. Under these very different circumstances, they probably would have had sex._  
_This chapter is from Sansa's point of view, so you don't get any of that. I wrote it this way because I _wanted_ it to be upsetting and uncomfortable. Speaking for myself here, but I think that, in canon, SanSan does make you question rape and challenge rape fantasy. It's strange to want them to be together, even for him to ravish her, without really accepting what that means. I am sorry if this offended you and I am really sorry if you don't want to keep reading, but if that's the case you probably won't be able to handle the later chapters anyway._

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CHAPTER 19

SANSA

Sansa was delighted to be sitting in front of a mirror. After more than a month of travelling they were finally spending the night at an inn. And at Barrowton, no less; a town in the North.

She combed her hair until it was fluffy and then she braided it, humming to herself all the while. It was so clean now, a rich copper color. Sansa had lit all the candles in the room, heedless of the waste, to keep the room bright and joyful and to see herself better in the mirror. The cream she had put on her skin was moisturizing nicely. She'd had the maid bring her a half dozen beauty supplies along with her bath and also help her trim her hair. At first the girl had been incredulous, especially when Sansa insisted on refilling the tub with clean, hot water after Sandor got out of it. But in the end she pressed the gold coin he gave her into the maid's hand and Sansa had to practically push the poor girl out of her room after that. She was tying a ribbon on the end of her braid when the door banged open. Sansa flinched, but it was just the Hound stumbling in. She turned back to the mirror to finish her hair. He came over to stand behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Gods, you're pretty."

They watched each other in the mirror for a moment and then she turned to look up at him questioningly. All at once his grip tightened and he leaned down to kiss her. She could smell alcohol on him heavy so she pushed him away and jumped up. The stool tumbled over and Sandor's foot caught in it when he took a step towards her."Fuck. Piece of shit." He tried to kick it off and one of the wooden legs snapped. "Ah, fuck it." He made quite a show of disentangling himself and Sansa put the bed between them. "What's the matter, Little Bird, do I still scare you so much?"

"You're drunk," she accused him.

"Yeah. What of it?" He lurched towards her and Sansa flew like a leaf to a corner of the room. Sandor laughed, sounding like a little boy. He made to go around the bed, but she ran to the other side, keeping the greatest distance between them. After a few turns, Sansa felt uncomfortably like they were playing a game.

"I'm going to catch you, Little Bird." He crawled over the bed.

Sansa backed up into the vanity. The furniture rattled and sent half the room's candles to the floor. Sansa watched in horror as one landed in the fallen tin of beeswax and ignited. Sandor was there in a second, stamping out the fire before much of it caught.

The light went out beneath Sandor's boot and they stood near each other in the blue darkness. Sansa's eyes only reached level with his chest. He was breathing heavy. She looked up at him.

He laughed.

She was too close to slip away, but she tried anyway. He caught her easily and held his wrists in the vice-like grip of his hands. She flailed against him. His physical strength was her shield, but against it she was defenseless. There was nothing she could do. "Let me go!" she shrieked, and pushed against him with all her might. He did.

Sansa landed on the bed so hard it winded her. That and her struggles left her panting, and Sansa felt half a fool for her futile display of force. "What's gotten into you?" she hissed.

"I want to kiss you." He stood over her and she knew he was looking at her through her flimsy nightdress. She felt a little afraid.

"No," she said.

"Why not?" he sneered, and leaned over with his hands on either side. His weight created a slope in the mattress that pulled her down towards him. "I thought you liked kissing."

"I do . . ." she looked away from him, ". . . but you smell like _beer_."

Sandor took her hand in his. She could have pulled it out of his grasp, but she didn't. He spoke low to her. "I don't have to kiss you on the mouth."

Sansa's heart beat faster. She forced herself to look at him. "W-what are you talking about?"

"Come here," he growled, scooping her up in his arms, "and I'll show you."

He brought the inside of her wrist up to his mouth and kissed it, going up along her forearm. She shuddered; the kisses felt so good, as good as they had ever felt between them. She hadn't known her arm was so sensitive. The heat was rising in her, but somehow that scared her more.

"Sandor," she whimpered, and he pressed closer to her, his knee between her thighs. She could smell the ale on him as he brought his face up to her neck. "Stop. Oh." The whole right side of her body tingled when he kissed her there. His hands roamed over her free and clumsy. He licked along her collarbone to the other side and she knew he was out of it; he was pressing his burned flesh right up against her cheek.

_He should not be kissing me_, she thought, _I never gave him leave_. He moved away from her for a second and she felt relieved that he had stopped, but then he kissed her nipple through the fabric of her dress. Sansa gasped and put her hands on his shoulders. Part of her thought it would be easier just to lie here and let him do what he wanted, to offer him neither acceptance nor resistance. But she knew in her heart that was wrong and she did not want things to be that way between them. At the same time, to say "No" and have him ignore her would be a greater pain than the first.

His hands went under her dress and slid up her thighs, pushing the dress up with them. She tried to pull it down, her hands tugging at the lacy edges. He didn't even need both hands to keep her dress up, he left one hand there for her to struggle against and the other came up to fondle her breast. He nuzzled her and she writhed beneath him. In some way it felt good-his hands on her, familiar, possessed by desire, but it was too much too soon and she wanted to stop. "Please, stop."

He pulled her knees apart and slid his hands along her inner thighs to open her further. He kissed her on both knees and up her legs. "Sandor, I'm not ready," she said meekly, but her body was shaking with an unfamiliar need and she used her hands to prop herself up instead of push him away.

She wanted to tell him to stop but another part of her, a selfish part, didn't. He kissed her lightly at first, then rougher, sucking at her the way he had done at her neck. She clawed at his shoulders and back, folding herself over his head, but whether to pull him away or closer even she herself was not sure.

She had let herself relax for a moment and knew that this was a mistake; she felt that she had lost control of her body. She felt his breath on her, a hot wind, and then he kissed her _there_. She cried out and after that every breath that left her was a little moan. Her thighs trembled against the side of his head as he tongued her, lapping at her slit like a dog drinking water.

Sansa bit her lip to keep from cursing. _He would never hurt me_, she told herself. _This is just a kiss_, but she knew that it was something more.

"Please," she begged. "Please please stop it." She dug her nails into both sides of his face and raked down.

"_Gods damn you, Sansa_." He grabbed both of her wrists as she scratched him and pinned her arms above her head. The wetness between her legs turned cold, a feeling that crept over her whole body as dread. "Why are you fighting me so much?" He gave her a little shake. His voice sounded as menacing as a demon snarling from a pit, but there was something else in it, a pain that grew more pronounced until he choked on the final word. "After everything we've been through together, you should want this! There's nothing to lose by it, Sansa . . . I know you had sex with the Imp."

Tears ran down her cheeks. She did love him, want him even, but he asked too much of her. She was still a virgin. She couldn't do this. Thoughts of Tyrion-and their unconsummated marriage-were the last thing on her mind. Sandor was confused, and drunk, and pressing down on her. She felt herself near hysterics. "No. I don't want to. I never did."

"You're a bloody liar," he cursed her, and pulled down his breeches.

Sansa's eyes widened when she saw his manhood spring free. _He is bigger than the dwarf_, she thought, though in her memory Tyrion's cock was frightfully large against his small body. The Hound's was large by any comparison. As soon as she saw it, she knew he meant to use it on her. "Please, Sandor. No." She was crying.

He kissed her tears away. "I'll show you how good it can be."

He held her around the waist, her legs spread on either side of him, looking down, his long hair hiding his face. Sansa couldn't watch. She looked away. On the nightstand were the items she had taken out of her bag; her comb, Aunt Lysa's jewelry, and the pearl-handled dagger Sandor had given her.

She flung her her arm out and grabbed the dagger. She had to stop him, or she would lose everything. _Not deep. Please don't go too deep._

She stabbed him in the shoulder. Sandor grunted. Sansa's hand fell away, her whole body limp, and the dagger slid out of his flesh and landed on the bed. Sandor looked over at it and put a hand on his bleeding arm. Blood was pouring out everywhere. Sansa sobbed and shook; she didn't care what happened now. She put her face in her hands and cried, and felt the bed move when Sandor got up to leave her.


	20. 20: SANDOR

_What a spike in reviews. That can't be good! :P Glad to know people are reading and hear from some new people. Hopefully this chapter will answer some of your questions. (Though if you were upset by the last one, I may lose you at the beginning of this one. Keep reading! Remember this is rated** M**!)_

DISCLAIMER: I am not GRRM and this is a fan-fiction.

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CHAPTER 20

SANDOR

_Fire_! There was a fire. He could feel the heat of it on his face and body. He opened his eyes, and sure enough, it was all around him. The green fire. The city was burning, and even the river was ablaze with flames. This was a fire that even water could not quench.

Damned if he was going to stay here. He climbed the steps to the the Little Bird's room. Sometimes she was there, and sometimes she flew back to her cage later. Tonight she was there, looking scared and all of twelve, staring out her window at the green flames.

He removed his helm and went to one knee before her. "I pledge my service to you, my Lady," he said. But when he held his helm out to her it wasn't the snarling dog, it was her father's severed head.

Sansa started to cry. "Don't cry," he told her. "Sing," and he held a dagger to her throat. Sansa sang "Prince Aemon the Dragonknight" and it was too much for him. He'd killed men today, he knew. He ripped off her dress. Underneath she was a woman and her body was wet like it had been at the pool, drops of water rolling off her tits like tears. He put a hand between her legs and she was wet there, too, so he fucked her.

Her voice wavered with every thrust but she kept singing. He looked down to where they were joined and blood was running between her legs like a river. Her voice was garbled, like she was singing from underwater, like she was drowning. He looked up and somehow the knife had slipped and she was bleeding from a gash in her neck, too. She couldn't sing anymore. Her head fell back and her neck opened and she didn't look like Sansa anymore, she looked like someone else, she looked like Lady Stoneheart, the witch-

Sandor awoke with a start. He was lying beneath some hedges outside of the inn, though they were scarcely more than clumps of sticks in this season. If it had snowed, he might have died-as it was, his joints were frozen stiff. He forced himself up and groaned as a pain shot through his shoulder.

His head was numb from the alcohol he drank the night before, but the pain cut through that as well and a piece of last night came back to him. He couldn't remember much, not even how he'd gotten the bandage wrapped around his arm, but he remembered how he got the cut. Sansa had stabbed him with the dagger he'd given her to protect herself with. He groaned again, a rage against himself, and fell back into the hedges. He doubted if Sansa would ever forgive him. She'd cried a river and begged him not to rape her. _How the fuck did we even get to that_? he wondered, but the full memory eluded him like voices in a fog.

"Fresh bread! Cakes!" A shopkeeper's voice called out. "Cakes! Last chance for cakes!" The smell of his goods followed him into the street. It was probably just a bid to attract late-morning customers, but it got Sandor to his feet and he startled a townsperson as he lurched out of the plant and onto the road.

The baker's assistant was stacking the goods on a cart outside while the baker himself handled transactions. The delicious smell had lured a small crowd over. A woman at the front asked, "What kind of cake is that?"

Sandor's leg was bothering him, but as he limped closer he heard the baker's reply. "That's a lemon cake."

Lemon cake. That was Sansa's favorite. It was also close to the flavor of her cunt-tangy and sour and a little bit sweet. The memory of parting her legs came back to him in a rush and he had to sit down.

He tried not to be too hard on himself. Who could have guessed that she had remained a maid after being married to_ Tyrion Lannister_? The Imp could scarcely go a meal without porking a woman. Sandor had told himself that she was reluctant because anyone would be, if their first time was as painful and humiliating as it had to be with someone like that. But the truth of it refused all these excuses. Tyrion had been more of a gentlemen to Sansa throughout their marriage than Sandor had for one night, and he had to bury his face in his hands to think that he was less than the dwarf in this.

He finally made it over to the baker and pointed at the cake. "How much?"

"One silver stag."

"A piece of silver! For one ruddy tart!"

The baker looked him over, but was not cowed by this swordsman standing amongst the commonfolk. "It's not too much for a man like you to pay. This is the last lemon cake you're likely to taste for the next ten years!"

"I ought to give you a piece of steel for it instead," Sandor grumbled, but he reached for his money belt instead of his sword.

Sandor and Sansa had been as careful as they could to avoid being recognized when they got to Barrowton. They went about the town separately and Sansa stayed at the inn after dark. But before she took her bath she had prattled on about a traveling merchant's fine dresses she saw on her way in, nearly in the same breath as her plans to treat with the Lady Dustin. Sandor was not so thick as to not put it all together. The man sold his wares out of a gaudy wagon pulled by two strong horses, growing prosperous off of war's easy pickings until the day some crueler thief would come and steal it from him.

"I need to buy a dress for a lady," Sandor told him.

The man looked him over. "Well," he rummaged through the back and pulled out some fabrics, "I have a few. But to be true, none of them are fitting enough for a lady of noble birth."

"The best you have, then."

"How tall is she? Shorter than you, of course." He put a hand to Sandor's chest at about Sansa's height. "Would you say thereabouts?"  
"Sure."

"Then you better choose one of these. I recommend this one; it's got a hint of orange in it to match her eyes."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, orange contrasts nicely with blue. Trust me Ser; girls know about these things, she'll like it."

"I never said her eyes were blue. I never said she was highborn, either."

The peddler stared at him like a cornered animal. Sandor contemplated killing him for what he knew. But finally the peddler picked up the dress and said, "I'll just wrap this up for you."

He pulled his hood up after that, wary of being seen, and headed for the stables. Sandor wouldn't have been surprised if Sansa had ridden on herself, but Lady was still in her stall, whickering to be let out. Sansa peered out of the stall, and came out when she saw him.

"You're here!" she said. "Where did you go? I looked all over for you."

"Here." He thrust the packages into her arms.

Sansa looked down at them, and when she looked back to him her eyes were all watery. "You remembered my nameday . . . !"

"Uhm, not quite." He knelt before her. "Sansa, I need to apologize to you."

She crushed the boxes to her chest and looked away. "If this is about last night . . ."

"It is. Listen. I would never do anything to hurt you. Not intentionally. Sansa, I'm sorry. I was drunk and I-I thought you would want it-"

"No," she shook her head. "No, I can't."

"I know. I was way out of line. I thought there would be no harm in it, but even so, I never should have . . ."_ I never should have taken her from the Eyrie. I never should have thought myself strong enough. I never should have imagined that she loved me._

"You scared me so much." She squeezed her eyes shut tight and turned away from him. "I thought you would hurt me."

"Gods, Sansa, no. I never mean to, I only wanted . . . I love you, Sansa. I wanted you to love me."

"Oh, Sandor . . . It's not that I don't _want_ to . . . I mean, not that I wouldn't consider, if . . . with you . . . it's just that I am the heir to Winterfell. If I am to restore it . . . I am highborn, Sandor, and a maiden. I have a certain responsibility . . . an expectation by my husband."

_She is letting me down easy_. "Right," he said. But it hurt him worse to hear how close he'd been to costing her something so dear.

She rested a hand on his shoulder and spoke to him softly. "I'm sorry, too."

"It's not your fault." He leaned into her, and wiped his eyes against her stomach. It felt good just to be close to her, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had damaged something between them. She put her arms around him and they hugged for a long time, until Sansa pushed him away.

". . . No more drinking, all right?"

"All right," he said, thinking he had never needed to drink more in his life. He stood up and Sansa looked up at him with big doe eyes, almost submissive now that he towered over her.

"I'm sorry that I can't . . . I can't give you what you want," she whispered.

"No, Little Bird. Stop it. All I want is to keep you safe. I swear it." He reached a hand out and almost drew it back before he touched her face. _I cannot be so free with her anymore_, he thought, but Sansa brought her own up and held him there, tilting her head with closed eyes into the big hand that cupped her cheek.

"I forgive you. You didn't do anything wrong in the end, and if you had, I doubt that whatever's in these boxes could make it up to me." She shifted her hand back to them. "I want to open my presents now."

"Go on."

She unrolled the bundle and held the dress up in front of her. "It's beautiful!" she said. ""But why did you get this for me? It isn't practical at all."

"It is if you want an audience with the Lady Dustin." Sandor thought it was a stupid idea, but Sansa was insistent. They had argued about it when they first got to town. Sansa said that if she couldn't trust her bannermen enough to treat with them on her return, she had no hope of holding Winterfell and all the north. The Lady Dustin should give her with provisions to ensure her voyage north. But Sandor thought it more likely she would be captured and possibly killed.

"Thank you," Sansa smiled at him. She squealed when she opened the box with the lemon cake and sat down right there and then to eat it.

"I still don't like the idea of you going to the keep alone."

"But you said yourself you can't come with me."

He nodded. "They'd kill me if they saw me."

"Well, I don't think they'll kill me alone … and if they do, this whole journey was a mistake, but you'll be spared."

_I would rather die with you_. "And if they take you hostage? How will I know if you are dead or alive?"

Sansa shook her head. "If I am killed or taken hostage, there is no hope for me. I give you leave."

He scoffed. He had half expected her to ask something impossible of him, like to storm the gates, though now that she hadn't he felt a little disappointed. It was just as impossible that he would leave her, but maybe that was what she wanted. "And if the Lady of Barrowton gives you the host you are hoping for, should I leave then, too? You will have no need of me, with your banners around you."

"No, of course not! Sandor, how can you say that? You must come with us, but it would be too dangerous for you to approach directly. We would have to meet afterwards, out of sight of the keep."

Sandor thought for a moment. "The northeast road outside of town leads into the Barrowlands. Meet me there."

"A secret meeting," she smiled. "And then we ride off together. It's almost like a story."

"No." Abruptly, he felt frustrated with her again. Didn't Sansa get it? What all those songs and stories were about?

Sansa frowned. "Well, I'd best be going." He helped her saddle up and pack everything away; then she mounted her palfrey and left. He watched her until she disappeared, then turned his back on the stable doors. He had to get out his armor and ready it, himself and his horse if he was going to meet Sansa tomorrow in time for the next leg of their journey. He walked over to the stall where he kept his horse and armor and put the inn's key in the lock.

That was when the big knight ambushed him.


	21. 21: SANSA

CHAPTER 21

SANSA

Sansa rode alone into the Ryswell keep. She told herself that she should not fear, because Barrowton and all the North belonged to her and she should not be afraid to treat with her own bannermen. But without Sandor at her side to protect her, she had never felt more vulnerable. She was finally aware of what little protection came from trusting others..

She told the man at the gate that Lady Ryswell was expecting her. He looked her over, nodded once, and let her in. Within the hour she was granted a private audience with Lord Ryswell's widow.

"Here is the girl," a page announced her. The hearth in the solar did not warm the room enough, and Sansa kept her cloak on. From her chair by the hearth the Lady Ryswell stood up; she was a cold woman, dressed in black, with lines set in her face from frowning. She looked Sansa over without smiling.

"You're Sansa Stark."

It was not a question, but Sansa answered it anyway. "Yes, Lady Ryswell." She gave a short curtsy. Though the widow of Barrowton had already shamed her by not taking her hand or bending the knee, Sansa did not forget her courtesies so easily.

"Yes, anyone who knew your parents could see that. Your resemblance to both of them is plain enough." Her eyes wandered over Sansa's body. "Especially to your mother. You have her breasts, you know."

"I . . . did not."

"Well I _do_. I remember my husband complimented them generously even though he was married to me. Tell me, how long have you been hiding in my town? A week? Two?"

"Not that long," Sansa shook her head. "A few days."

Instead of placating her, this news only displeased the widow more. "The smallfolk are already whispering about you," she hissed. "It would be better if they kept quiet. If Ramsay hears of it, he'll punish me for keeping you from him." Then she smiled. "And you can be sure he'll make a sport of hunting you down."

"Ramsay . . ." Sansa searched her memory. "The Bastard of Bolton? Ramsay Snow?"

"He is legitimized now, and heir to the Dreadfort. You'd best be sure you call him Ramsay Bolton if you ever have the misfortune of running into him. Though you won't live very long if you ever do."

Sansa could not tell if Lady Ryswell was threatening her. The nervous thought that Sandor was right and she had delivered herself as a hostage crossed her mind. Sansa decided to push her authority. "The Boltons are vassals of House Stark; as are you, my Lady."

If Lady Ryswell acknowledged this, Sansa had already decided to push the point by asking her to provide an escort for her back to Winterfell. But the woman laughed. Her teeth never showed, her lips never turned up at the corners and her lower lip stuck out as she breathed _huh huh huh_from her chest. "The Starks are all dead. I won't help you North, if that's what you're getting at."

"You would deny your liege." Sansa was near shaking in anger. _I've brought myself here for nothing_. If she didn't already fear for her life, she could have slapped the Lady Ryswell.

"I will help you enough by pretending I never saw you, and cutting out the tongues of those who swear they did."

_At least she will set me free_, Sansa thought. "You favor Bolton's claim on the North."

"I protect my skin, my land, and my people. I have no great love for the Boltons, and they are a cruel lot. But make no mistake-I have no great love for your family, either. And I will not hinder my pretty and true princess on her impossible quest to reclaim her castle. All I ask is that you respect this neutrality. If you win this game I want no punishment from you, as the punishment from the Boltons on me now would be wroth."

"Fine," Sansa said. _Coward_, she thought._ I should not have come here_.

"It shouldn't be too much trouble for you; you made it this far." Lady Ryswell turned up her nose. "Coming into my keep alone, with no escort, would you have me believe you came North by yourself? How did you manage that, I wonder?"

"I would rather not say."

"Fair enough. A Lady must have her secrets. But you should know that there is a rumor from the South that it was the Hound who brought you. They say he stole you away from his masters, and raped you every day on the way here."

"I . . . that is not true."

"I suppose it couldn't be, if you're still walking. Either way, its in your best interests to quell that rumor if you plan on marrying once you make it back to Winterfell. Men like to break a filly in themselves, so to speak. Oh, but how I forget myself!" She threw up her hands in mock surprise. "You were married to Tyrion Lannister."

"This marriage was done in raptus," Sansa bristled. She did not often think of her marriage to Tyrion, but it did not look like the world was willing to let her forget it. "Vows said beneath the point of a sword are not true vows."

"This is true, but it may not matter much to your suitors if the Lannisters already lay claim to your cunt. Your husband was supposedly insatiable when it came to sex."

"I am still a maiden! Tyrion was a monster, yes, but he never . . ."

"Are you? Well, I trust your word on it over any Maester's, but don't expect others to. You'd best have it confirmed medically if you want to rid yourself of your Lannister ties. I lost mine own to your uncle Brandon. A fat load of good it did me, giving something so precious of myself to him. He got betrothed to the Lady Catelyn, a smear upon my honor as sure as the one across the sheets. The day he got himself killed by Aerys I was truly sorry, for it meant that Catelyn's hand passed to his younger brother Ned and I would never sit the seat you run to. _Winterfell_. It will be easy for you to annul your marriage and trade your maidenhead for a husband who can help you restore it. You are beautiful, virginal, and naive-men will come to you from across the Seven Kingdoms to try and win your hand. Take an old woman's advice and don't believe their gallant promises and professions of love. Words are wind. You are beautiful, but it is not you they love. Each longs to be the first you take to bed, but it is not you they want. The love power. They lust for a kingdom. And what better way to get it than by a poor and forlorn princess we all thought was dead."

Sansa did not know what to say to that. Arrangements were made for Sansa to sleep there, and she retreated to a room in Lady Ryswell's keep. The room was high up in a tower, and near the Lady's own chambers, so Sansa had little fear that she would be disturbed. All the same, she felt safer that she could lock the door behind her.

Sansa pushed open the glass windows and looked out onto the night. The town was below her with the rolling hills of the Barrowlands in the distance. She left the window open since after sleeping out of doors for over a month,the room felt stuffy to her. _Everyday my luxuries grow more numerous._She was so used to sleeping on the ground that it was strange to have a large bed with soft sheets, warm blankets and an abundance of pillows. Still, she was glad to be inside. The moon was rising and a light snow was falling. She wondered how fared Sandor, alone on this cold night.

Sansa climbed into bed and under the furs, but her mind was restless and she could not sleep. She knew there was truth in Lady Ryswell's words, but she never would have worded it that way. Sansa had always entertained romantic visions of her marriage, but now those seemed impossibly naive. Part of her wanting to escape the Eyrie had been so that she could choose her own mate, but with Winterfell so heavy a consideration she realized that the stability of the North weighed in at far greater importance than her own girlish happiness. _Will my husband love me? Will he be handsome_? These suddenly did not seem as important as questions like, _Will he betray my house to my enemies? Will he bring food to my people?_

Sansa took the largest pillow and laid it alongside her body. She missed sleeping next to Sandor. She'd slept next to him every night for more than a month-naked, for the most part-and he'd never touched her. _Well, except for last night,_ she thought, _but we weren't sleeping_. Coming on to her drunk had been woefully inappropriate, but Sansa wondered how she would have reacted if he had not been drunk and if she was not so concerned about preserving her maidenhead.

Now that she had heard the benefit of her innocence worded in such an ugly way, it did seem a trivial thing to establish a marriage on. When she thought of how she had already been married against her will, the idea that her suitors wanted her intact to prove a claim on her made her feel more like an object than a person._ Is my body just a vessel to bargain with? Am I truly worth more to a man if he can break me_? She wanted to think of sex as romantic, but it didn't seem possible if love was not a part of it. And if marriage was the only prerequisite for sex, then how could she ever find love?

Sansa tossed in bed, mulling it over. She had to marry, and her only concern could be to benefit Winterfell. Her girlish dreams of romance had to be put aside. She didn't know if she could do it. To marry for Winterfell, yes; but to never know a lover's touch? To save herself for a man she did not know, who did not actually love her? They wanted her kingdom; she was a prize to be won, a way to conquer the North. If they romanced her, it would be because she was first a princess and they wanted her power. But Sandor only wanted her.

She reached between her legs to the place that he had touched her. Even through her smallclothes she could feel that she was wet. Alarmed, she pushed them to the side and felt for her maidenhead. Nothing felt different; though the folds of her vagina were slick, she wouldn't be able to get a finger in without forcing it. She stopped pressing at her entrance and felt up and down the outside, remembering how he'd moved his tongue. She was as wet as if he'd just licked her.

Soon Sansa was breathing heavy. She grabbed the pillow next to her and squeezed it between her legs, rubbing her hips back and forth on it. She thought of Sandor and the way he held her to him when they kissed, strong like he would never let her go. He could be rough and scary but when he kissed her he was always gentle. She loved the feeling of his hands pressing firm against her skin, of his power when he hovered over her and the playful way he sometimes rolled her on top of him. Sansa clutched the pillow tighter and rubbed down harder on it. She turned her face and moaned into the furs; not so much because she couldn't help it, but because she wanted to give the feeling some voice. Her thighs strained and a wave of relaxation overcame her.

Sansa flung the covers off her and sprawled on her back, panting. She knew what she had done. A blush rose up her neck, darkening her already splotchy skin, but she found herself wondering why she should feel embarrassed. If love and sex and marriage were as the Lady Dustin said they were-and that was just the other side of the coin Sansa had always believed them to be-she had something special with Sandor that she would not find in a husband who married her in a political arrangement. There were pawns and players, but for the players the game always came first. A man could not be both her lover and her lord, and if she could not hold out for love in her marriage, she would have to find it elsewhere-lest she become as frigid as the Lady Dustin.

Sansa knew from songs and stories that highborn ladies had gallant knights who fell in love with them and did their bidding, though these men had no hope of ever rising above a petty lordship, much less marrying the girl. Of course, she had never imagined that she would have the need of anything from such men except their loyalty, being as she was destined to have a loving, fulfilling relationship as the wife of a handsome, young, and dashing prince. That had not turned out, and now Sansa was alone in the world, with even her own bannermen unwilling to protect her against her enemies, no home yet, and no knights.

_But Sandor is my knight_. He cared for her and protected her-not because she could marry him one day, but because he loved her. He had done so much for her, and she was always selfish. He was bringing her all the way to Winterfell for no reason other than she asked it of him, while she was so wrapped up in propriety that she could not even admit her own feelings about him to _herself_.

Now she felt guilty and foolish, for who in all the world could she trust except for Sandor? She could not even expect her future husband to be as loyal. Sandor had proved that he wanted her, and his passion had been frightening; but he had also proved every step of the way here that he loved her. She had refused him because she thought it was the right thing to do, and also because she was not ready, but now she thought, Why shouldn't I be intimate with him? Sansa knew well the power of icy courtesy, but what about the power of a fiery embrace? She was curious about it, and it made more sense to Sansa to be honest about her feelings than to hold herself back for the dream that her husband would love her. And maybe Sandor was right and there was no harm in it; there was something supremely unattractive about saving herself for a man who believed her worth tied to her innocence, while the whole world believed she'd had sex with Tyrion anyway.

She would give her life to her station, but she could give her heart away as it wanted. She decided she would tell him. As soon as she saw him next she would tell him everything. _That I owe him my life a thousand times over, that I am grateful for everything he does for me, and that I am sorry I did not say it sooner; that I love him._


	22. 22: BRIENNE

_Update is finally ready! _

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CHAPTER 22

BRIENNE

It took an inordinate amount of persuading, but once the Lady Dustin finally admitted that she held Sansa she promised to release her to Brienne and the men. The widow of Barrowton didn't seem to keep the girl hidden so much because she didn't want anyone to leave with her so much as she seemed convinced that someone had sent Brienne and her party to find her. Brienne had to point out that she was right-she had a letter saying as much from the Lannister boy king, Tommen.

The next morning, Lady Dustin brought them all into the yard. It had snowed during the night, just enough to cover the horses' hooves, and the air from the clear blue sky was crisp.

"How did you explain us?" Brienne asked. She felt astounded that she was moments away from meeting Sansa Stark after searching for her for such a long time, and a little worried what the girl's reaction would be upon finally meeting her.

"I told her what you told me. That you are knights come to her aid. She was naive enough to believe it."

"Naive? Excuse me, my Lady, but that is the truth."

Lady Dustin ignored Brienne. "Here she comes," she said, and they turned their attention to the stablehand leading a white horse and a girl into the yard.

For just a moment, Brienne thought it was the Lady Catelyn brought back to life.

It was the Lady Sansa. She was too young to be Catelyn, but she had her mother's figure and reddish hair, which along with her lips and cheeks looked vibrant against the snow. Her eyes were lighter than Brienne remembered the Lady Catelyn's being, and the clean lines of Sansa's face and her solemn features must have come from the Stark side of her family. Brienne thought they gave her a timeless beauty._ All her life it will be hard to tell her age_.

Brune nodded next to her, the signal that this was the right girl. When Sansa came up to them Brienne took the knee. The others followed her, but only Brienne removed her helm. "Lady Sansa Stark, I am Brienne of Tarth."

"Oh!" Sansa gasped on seeing Brienne's straw-blonde hair spill free. "You are a lady knight." Then she giggled, her voice lilting as a songbird's. "I feel safer already. And who are these-men, I presume?"

"These men make up your envoy."

"You command them?"

Brienne could not blame her for looking skeptical. A 'lady knight' was one thing, a lady commander was another. "All of us come by order of the king."

"What do you mean? My brother is dead, and everywhere I go his enemies seek to accost me."

"I swore an oath to your lady mother to protect you."

"You did?"

"It was at Riverrun," Brienne explained. "I swore fealty to the Starks, and your mother sent me to find you and your sister and keep you safe. I fear your sister died at King's Landing, but I have spent this long time since seeking you out to fulfill my oath."

"If you were truly sworn to my mother then we are well met, but my sister is not dead. You may rise."  
Jaime had said the girl was dead, so how Sansa could know that she was not Brienne could not begin to suspect, but she wasn't about to argue with her liege so soon after meeting her. Instead, they mounted up. From the back of her horse Sansa turned the Lady of Barrowton.

"Lady Ryswell," she said, using the widow's married name. "You've done more than you promised. Thank you."

"It was not I who supplied them. They came here on their own." Looking Sansa over, she added, "You should take it as a warning."

"More sage advice, and all of it I keep close to my heart. You may not have ordered these men-and this woman-but if nothing else, your counsel helped me find my way." It would not have been out of place as a subtle comment about what few supplies their party left Barrowton with, but Brienne couldn't sense sarcasm from Sansa's words. They sounded of genuine thanks.

All the same, there was something sinister in Lady Dustin's response. "May the Gods old and new go with you, Princess Sansa. I will pray for you to make it home. And if you don't, at least you will have someone to take your bones north, as no one did for my Lord Husband."

Brienne didn't think Sansa would need anyone to take her bones north, because she had every intention of taking her alive to Jaime at Moat Cailin. The girl would be safe there, and safe now that she had Brienne and the others to look after her. They already had arrangements for a ship at a southwestern port to take them inland.

Sansa turned her horse and Brienne and the men followed her. "We'll take the North gate," she decided.

"My Lady? The west is closer-" and nearer to the port, but Sansa was already trotting off.

_What a willful girl_, Brienne thought. She could feel the cold stares of Bronn and Brune on her back as they hurried off course. No matter-there was a crossroads ahead where they could get back on track, and time enough between here and there to convince Sansa of the sense in turning west.

Once they were out on the road Lucion and his squire led the way while Bronn and Brune brought up the rear. "With me, Brienne," Sansa said, and Brienne pulled her horse closer to ride abreast with Sansa, who asked how she came to find her.

Brienne told her about the Blackfish, but Sansa, who had never met her uncle, worried about how fast the rumor of her location had traveled. She had only been in Barrowton for a few days.

"Do not fear, for you have a company to protect you now," Brienne reassured her. "In truth, I was relieved to find you unharmed in Barrowton, for the rumor of you and the Hound was dark."

Sansa slowed her horse so that Brienne lost pace with her, and when she turned in her saddle the girl met her questioning look with an intense stare.

"He has been more true to me than any other man."

Brienne felt a twitch of guilt. She had met the Hound yesterday, and did not think he would be chasing after Sansa anymore. "If you say so, my lady."

"That's the third time you've made that mistake," Sansa went on. "I am not just a lady anymore. Since my brother declared himself a King, I am a Princess here in the North."

"I apologize . . . your grace," Brienne said, but the words felt fat on her tongue. Brienne did not think it likely that the Lannisters would let her stay a princess._ It may be more difficult than I thought to get her to meet with Jaime_, Brienne thought. _But what girl does not dream of becoming a Princess? Let her have her fun._She thought that she might have to promise Sansa whatever she said she wanted until the girl became more reasonable, for whether Sansa wanted to admit it or not the Lannisters could protect her far better than she could protect herself.

They rode for a time without speaking and came to the edge of the Barrowlands, hills with valleys that looked punched into the tall earth instead of mountains rising out of flat land. They were coming up on the crossroads that would take them back around to port or north into the Barrowlands, and that was where Brienne saw that she was wrong about the Hound.

He sat a black horse at the crest of the first hill overlooking the northern path. She knew him from his helm. The rest of his armor made him look like a fool in motley-he had managed a full set, but it was mismatched. Thrown together piecemeal, of different colors and material, he wore grey and black and copper, steel alongside cheaper iron, and a breastplate that looked stretched to fit.

"Look at that! A regular Ser Florian," Bronn laughed behind them. It made Sansa, who had been staring up at the Hound with what Brienne was unnerved to find could only be described as adoration, turn back to him in a huff.

"Damnit, Brienne!" Brune lifted up his visor and shouted at her. "I thought you took care of him!"

Brienne thought she had, too.

"Taste my blade, Hound!" she had shouted yesterday when she met him in the stable, descending on him with all the fury of a tigress. She slashed out with her sword, but the Hound ducked and rolled away, and his head stayed on his shoulders. She came at him again with an overhead swing in the same movement, but a pail he threw hit her in the face of her helmet and the next thing she knew he was on his feet swinging the combed end of a rake at a joint in her armor. Brienne stepped back and parried the blow, her Valyrian steel sword slicing through the wood like it was a stalk of grass.

He scrambled away from her, pushing open the door of a horse's stall to slow her down, but she just went around it. Brienne couldn't blame him if he was in a panic. He had on no armor, not even chainmail, and any weapon he chose would be powerless against her sword. He was faster than her, a good fighter, and fighting for his life, but it made no matter. He had nowhere to go. The entrance to the stable was behind her, in front of her was a pile of hay and the stable's back wall.

The Hound grabbed a pitchfork off of it and hoisted it at her. "Who the fuck are you!"

"I am Brienne of Tarth," she answered. He deserved that much. "I come on behalf of Lady Stark."

"The bitch of Tarth, more like," he sneered. "And there's some bullshit if I ever heard any. Sansa's got nothing against me. You're a bounty hunter dressed up as a knight."

"This is not about reward money. This is about justice."

"Or Lannister gold."

Mentioning the Lannisters made her bristle. She readied her sword. "Everyone knows you kidnapped and raped her."

"And everyone knows _you _killed Renly," he growled.

She thrust. He caught the blade between the teeth of the pitchfork and twisted. For just a moment, she lost her grip on her sword. The pommel spun around in her hand and Brienne thought that she would drop it. The Hound had wrenched it away from her. But then the soft steel ends of the pitchfork screamed against the sharpness of her Valyrian steel and the force needed to overpower it. The pitchfork's center tine snapped off, and she was free.

She gripped the pommel tight again, as tight as the fear that had just gripped her. The Hound could not keep her at bay anymore. She could kill him, she knew. He slumped against the back of the barn. His shoulder was bleeding, but Brienne didn't remember making the cut. She pointed her sword at him.

"If you kill me, I'll never tell you where Sansa is."

"You will tell me to answer for your crimes. Then, I will kill you. May the Gods judge you justly."

He shook his head. "No need for the Gods. You've already done that."

She brought the tip of her sword nearer to his throat. "Tell me."

"Why should I?" Clegane growled. "What do you want with her, anyway?"

"I told you. I swore an oath."

He dropped his head and shook, and it took her a moment to realize he was laughing. "If you're telling the truth we have no quarrel. You could have told her yourself a moment ago-she only just left. Sansa's gone to the keep at Barrowton to meet the widow. Thinks she'll help her, being as she's heir to the North. Tell me-if I kept Sansa as a prisoner, would I let her leave my side?"

Brienne did not believe that he would let her go, but if he had ransomed her, why not just say so? _Maybe he never had her_. "You could be lying."

"Except that I'm not, you daft wench!" He sounded angrier about that accusation than about her threatening to kill him. "You'll find her at the keep. The girl goes her own way. Though I'm a fool to believe that you're really here to help her, I don't have much choice with that sword of yours pointed at my throat. Do you think I'd tell you where she is if I had a reason to keep her away from you?"

Brienne hadn't known what to answer to that. She felt confused. She was sure the Hound would lead her to Sansa; and so he promised, but could she trust him? None of it seemed to fit. His story could be a ploy to dissuade her, but then why not plead ignorance instead of argue? The only way she would know if any of it were true, would be to stop wasting time here and find Sansa.

She put her sword away. "I'm going to find her, and you're going to leave her alone," she said. Then she slammed a mailed fist into his groin. He doubled over and she left.

The Hound had not lied, and Brienne had found Sansa. But there he was at the top of the hill.

When Sansa saw Brune's face, she screamed. "_You_!" Her horse caught her nervousness and danced in place, turning round to face him.

"My Lady, please," Brienne beseeched her. "You are making a scene." She was worried the horse would bolt. She reached out, but Sansa pulled on the reins of her horse and the beast sidestepped away.

"What is _he _doing here!"

"We all come by order of the king. I told you. Here-" Brienne took out her letter and handed it over.

Sansa snatched the parchment and scanned it. When her eyes reached the bottom her lips curled into a snarl. "This is a letter from King _Tommen_."

The men ignored her, focussed as they were in anticipation of a battle. Clegane was waiting for them to make a move. "We'll take him. Come on, Walder." Lucion spurred his horse and his squire followed him up the hill.

Sansa balled the paper into a fist and threw it in Brienne's face. "You vile, scheming bitch!" she shrieked. Brienne was too shocked to say anything. Sansa gathered the reins of her horse. "_Winterfell_!" she screamed, and her horse reared up. "_WINTERFELL_!"

At the top of the hill, Sandor Clegane readied his lance. He spurred his horse and charged down the slope at the men racing up to meet him. The point of his weapon slammed into the squire with such a force that it threw the boy off his horse, and half of it broke off inside his chest. Clegane threw the shattered lance away from him and took out his sword. He parried Lucion's cuts like he was swatting a fly, and brought his own sword down savagely against the knight.

"They need help," Bronn said. "That squire's dead."

"So help them!" Brune shouted. "You're the one always carping on about the reward money. Go earn it."

"Gladly." Bronn road to help. Sansa went hysterical, screaming for someone to help Sandor Clegane. She almost rode out herself, but Brienne blocked her path.

"Brienne, help him! He's going to die!"

Clegane had fared well against Lucion alone, but Bronn was a better match for him. The former sellsword was a vicious, calculated fighter, and quickly showed the knight how they could take advantage of their greater number. One of them would force Clegane to defend a cut, creating an opening for the other to bash at him with the length of his sword.

"If you had really sworn fealty to my family, you would not consort with my enemies," Sansa asserted. "You would not plot to take me back to the Lannisters! You would take out your sword and kill the men you ride with!"

"That's enough out of you, girl." Brune had snuck up behind her. He lifted her out of the saddle. Feeling her rider's struggles, Sansa's horse reared, spilling her, kicking, into Brune's lap. Then it galloped away.

Brune fought to bring Sansa into the seat in front of him. She kicked and beat against him. Brienne thought the use of force excessive, but the girl was fighting like a wild animal. _This quest was done. All I wanted to do was see Jaime._

Sansa was screaming and trying to bite. Just before Brune got his hand over her mouth, she looked at Brienne and screamed.

"_OATHBREAKER_!"

The word cut deep into Brienne's heart. She touched the pommel of the sword Jaime had given her. _Oathkeeper_. Its name was Oathkeeper, or it was cursed.

She drew it.


	23. 23: SANDOR

_I don't know if I'll be able to finish this fanfic, but I feel horrible leaving it at such a cliffhanger. I want to dedicate this chapter to Midnight Dawn, who has been supportive of me despite my obstinacy and encouraged me to keep writing.  
_

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CHAPTER 23

SANDOR

When Sandor saw the big knight with the Valyrian steel sword charging up the hill to join her companions, he thought that all was lost for him and Sansa. He could not fight three men at once.

"Run, Clegane." The black knight taunted him behind a smile of yellow corn kernal teeth. "After Blackwater, I know you have it in you. The battle that made men call you a coward made me a knight."

"Cease goading him, Ser Bronn!" The Lannister knight was in a seething rage. "I want him to stay and die."

_Only a fool would stay and fight this out_, Sandor thought, but that's what he did, attacking with the ferocity of a cornered boar. He slashed out Bronn took the opening and hit him across the back with such force that the sword felt like a club. This was how knights in heavy armor died—beaten to death from the shocks of blows through their armor.

But when the lady knight got there, she turned her sword on the knight who'd lost his squire. She cut into him like he was a hunk of meat. Her sword was a carving knife, his armor the charred outside of a roast, and the bloody red insides sprayed out.

Sandor's relief was as palpable as if he had tasted the blood on his tongue. He cracked the black knight across the face with his sword. The man's helmet—and his head, too, Sandor hoped—spun around at an odd angle. Sandor turned to the crossroads at the bottom of the hill to face who was left, but Sansa and Lothor Brune were gone.

"Which way did they go?" he asked the woman.

"I didn't see."

Sandor cursed. "You go south, towards the town, and I'll go west." He didn't wait for her affirmation, but put his heels into his horse. He had little doubt that Brune had taken Sansa this way, but there was always the chance that he'd taken her back toBarrow ton. And as great as a relief as it had been not to die at the top of that hill, he didn't trust the woman knight enough to ride with her.

He didn't look back to find out if she was stubborn enough to follow anyway. Stranger galloped over mud, gravel, and melting snow to where the road lined the tops of the cliffs along the sea. It was here that he spotted Sansa and her captor, zigzagging at a distance.

He didn't doubt that his wheezing and sweating horse was growing tired from carrying all that armor, but he forced Stranger on all the same. In addition to the extra pieces of heavy armor Sandor had been able to acquire since yesterday, his horse had plates over his chest and rump and a crinet to protect his neck. But if Stranger had half the adrenaline running through his body that Sandor did, he would be able to run and fight for another hour at least. That was more than enough time to end this.

Sansa turned around in her saddle and he knew why the horse she was on weaved from side to side instead of trotting straight ahead. She was fighting and kicking the whole way. His heart went out to her, that she would struggle so hard with such little hope of escape. When she saw Sandor she redoubled her efforts, going so far as tofruitlessly bite down on the mailed fist of the man holding her.

He hit her across the face. What little caution Sandor had left in him snapped. Of all the times he had stood by and watched Sansa beaten, he could not do it now.

Stranger raced like a demon down the road. When he came up on the other horse he didn't stop. The stallion collided into the dapple gray horse with his front hooves. Both Sansa and the gray horse screamed. It stumbled while Sansa struggled to get away. Lothor Brune cursed, trying to keep a grip on her and regain control of his horse. Stranger reared up again. Sandor drew his sword and blocked the path. The two horses paced and snorted across from each other.

"Sandor Clegane." Brune pulled Sansa firmly against him in the saddle. "I'll have you know that Petyr Baelish asked me to kill you after you left the Eyrie, but you never passed the Bloody Gate. I never thought I'd have to track you this far north to complete the job."

"Let her go, Brune. You can't beat me in a fight."

"I think I could. Especially with her as my shield."

Sandor's rage burned inside of him from knowing that men could be so cowardly. "Let her go. We'll fight it out like men, in single combat."

"Tell me, did you take your pleasure of her before you lost her?"

He'd had enough. "I'll get my pleasure from killing you."

Brune drew his sword with the hand that wasn't keeping Sansa held in front of him, while Sandor wielded his into the heart of the gray horse beneath his rival.

"_Off your horse_," he said.

"Aaargh!" Brune yelled as his horse's legs went out from under him. He threw Sansa off and jumped away in time to avoid being trapped beneath the dying animal. Sandor vaulted off of his own horse and came at him. He knew he had the advantage from horseback, but he couldn't risk Brune trying the same trick that he had just pulled.

"Craven!" the former freerider spat at him, his dying horse's legs kicking away mud and snow in its last twitches. "That horse was worth more than your life." He held his sword out in front of him, ready to parry and attack.

Sandor said nothing. Brune had done the dishonorable thing, not him. He had the advantage from horseback, but he didn't want Brune trying what he had done and killing his horse, too. And now it could be said that he beat him in a fair fight.

Sandor walked to well within striking distance of Brune's sword, taking a few taps on his armor, and deflected a heavy cut. The steel rang out like a chime being struck with a hammer. Sandor's slashing counterattack was almost clumsy, and Brune was pushed backwards by the force of the blow.

The smaller man was an accomplished swordsman, but Sandor fought with a clarity rent from anger. He hated Lothor Brune and his careful, nervous way of fighting. He hated the Lannisters and Petyr Baelish and everything behind all of this man's pathetic attempts to save his own life. Every blow he struck out at Sandor was another swat his old masters tried to land on him, and every blow Sandor landed was recompense—for himself, for the Lannister's subjects, and for the North.

Brune made a desperate strike and was stunned for a moment, when Sandor parried it. Sandor raised his sword and brought it down with all his strength onto Lothor Brune's helm.

The noise was like an avalanche breaking, or a clap of thunder. The sword broke, but not before it had split Brune's helmet, and lodged fatally in his head. Sansa had been on the floor since being thrown, scrambling to get out of the way of the battle and the hooves of the dying horse, and now she screamed as the body fell next to her on the ground and splashed her dress with blood.

But Brune's gory death was the most beautiful thing Sandor had seen all day. He scooped the girl up in his arms and got on his horse. He carried her to the top of a hill, from where they could see the port, the steeple of the sept at Barrowton, the scattered buildings of a ranch house; and, to the north, nothing but the rolling hills of the Barrowlands, a wilderness beneath a blanket of snow.

Also, they could see if anyone approached them. Relief came over Sandor. He was exhilarated to have killed men today, but now he could relax. As soon as he knew it he felt the soreness and pain in his body. He needed to rest. Sansa clung to him on the horse, and kept clinging to him even after he'd dismounted.

And she kissed him—a dozen pecks across his cheeks, his eyes, his lips. He couldn't bring himself to kiss her, at first—he didn't trust himself after the other night—but she kissed him across both sides of his face twice and he relented. He sought her mouth with some hesitation and a great deal of restraint, but Sansa's passion was furious. She kissed him with a deep need, even going so far as to touch the inside of his mouth with her tongue. He broke away but she would not stop, landing pecks on his jaw and cheek and ear, and whispering to him the things he did not admit even to himself that he wanted to hear.

He knew his armor had to be crushing her and he didn't want to wear it anymore so he pulled his breastplate off. Sansa helped him like a good squire would, and removed the other pieces, but more often she climbed into his lap and kissed him, tangling her fingers in his long black hair and holding him close to her. A heat was rising in him, and after a particularly bold move on Sansa's part he held her by the hair to kiss her, and touched her face.

She was crying. He pulled away from her. He'd done it again, he knew; got carried away and scared her. Sandor cursed himself and barked at Sansa. "You should have said something. We should stop!"

"I don't want to stop. Oh, Sandor. It's my dress. It's _ruined_."

It was. It was torn, and although it had been a warm pastel color when he gave it to her, it was impossible to tell that now because of the stains. It was splotched with mud, which might wash out; and blood, which wouldn't. Sandor hated the thing. Sansa was safe, but seeing it destroyed made him think of all they could have lost. And it was such a meaningless thing for her to worry about. "So get rid of it," he growled at her. He gripped the top of her bodice and tore it down the middle, to her waist.

She gave a quick intake of air as though she had been struck. Her breasts bounced free, like swans settling to roost, her lips parted and a blush crept over her cheeks from being laid out naked afore him. Underneath, Sansa was beautiful and perfect. She was clean and didn't have a scratch on her. He felt so good that he had killed men today and saved her. Her perfect unmarred body was proof of how good he had done. He drank her in with his eyes, afraid to touch her and spoil the lovely vision in front of him. He waited for her to protest, cover herself, complain. But she didn't.

She pulled on his hands and guided them to her breasts, tossing her head on the cloak as he touched her. Still, he couldn't believe that she wanted this. He pulled his hands away, afraid to look her in the eye.

"Sandor, I want to tell you something. Look at me."

When he didn't, she put a hand on his face and guided him to her.

"I realized something. I'm a princess, and that means that I must always put the needs of my land, my family, and my people before my own desires. Even though all my life I've dreamed about love through songs and stories, my husband will marry me for my castle, not myself. I may never have a lover. And I was so scared today that we would lose each other, and I would never get to tell you this or do this with you. I love you, Sandor. I know I can't have you as a princess—I only want you as a woman."

He couldn't really accept it. _She's not Sansa. It's some glamour._ Beneath him she was naked, the most beautiful woman in the world. "You're too young."

"No, I'm not." Her expression turned devious and she pulled off her smallclothes and her boots. "I had my nameday, remember?"

Sandor groaned. He had no more resistance left in him. He'd wanted so badly, for so long, for her to love him. He pulled her into his arms and held her for a long time.

"Will it hurt?" Sansa whimpered as he petted her softly.

He didn't want to lie to her, but he didn't want to scare her, either. "Not so much, if you're wet."

"Oh. Then, should we go down to the water?"

"No," he laughed, and laid Sansa down on her back.


End file.
